


What Not to Do While Riding a Bus on the Motorway

by seaholly



Series: Guiding Hand [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Caning, Corporal Punishment, Cuddling, Discipline, M/M, Pre-Slash, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-22
Updated: 2013-10-09
Packaged: 2017-12-15 18:42:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 89,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/852788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seaholly/pseuds/seaholly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John have a case. Things get more than a little out of hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Case

**Author's Note:**

> Some people mentioned that they weren’t keen on the idea of John using a cane on Sherlock, so here’s the promised warning: the cane gets used in this story. However, it doesn’t happen in this chapter. So if you don’t like the idea of caning but you still want to keep up with the plot, such as it is, or if you’re just curious about what exactly Sherlock does to get in so much trouble, this one is safe to read. I’ll put another warning on chapter two for the actual caning scene.
> 
> Also, apologies to the people who’d like me to just get on with the spanking part. I was having too much fun with the case and the action, so Sherlock’s punishment won’t actually start until the next chapter.

 

John glanced out the window of the cab as it pulled to a stop, taking in the house that was liberally decorated in front with crime scene tape. Two uniformed officers were standing just inside the front gate—neither of whom was Sally Donovan, John was relieved to see. Although she was quite possibly inside the house somewhere, but at least there wasn’t going to be a fight first thing.

A flurry of movement beside him signalled Sherlock bounding out of the cab, and John hastily pushed money at the driver and followed. One of the officers at the gate, apparently warned to expect them, held up the tape so that they could step under.

“Inspector Lestrade’s upstairs, Mr Holmes,” he said, with dutiful politeness. “Second floor.”

“Actually he’s here,” Lestrade amended, appearing at the front door. “Thanks for coming,” he added, as Sherlock and John approached. “We’re upstairs.”

He turned to lead the way back through the house, explaining as he went. Sherlock let him talk without interrupting, but John could see him looking carefully from side to side as they walked down the hall, keen eyes taking everything in.

“The victim is Thomas Fisher, age twenty-five,” Lestrade told them. “Found murdered last night in his bedroom. Initial exam says he died around six o’clock, right around the time his flatmate came home. That’s Jonathan Foster, also twenty-five. He says he knew Fisher was home when he came in because his jacket was in the hall, but he didn’t see or hear anything suspicious. When he went upstairs an hour later to talk to him, he found him dead in his room. Killed by a single stab wound to the neck. Definitely done with a knife but we haven’t found it yet. Motive appears to have been robbery, at least in part. According to the flatmate the only thing missing is Fisher’s watch and apparently it’s worth a lot. Some family heirloom from his grandfather.”

“Someone who knew him, then,” Sherlock said shortly, as they started up the stairs. “And knew the value of the watch. You’re looking at the flatmate.” He cast Lestrade a quick, searching glance. “But you don’t think he did it, which is why you called me.”

Lestrade turned on the landing and kept going up, exchanging a wry look with John on the way. “Yeah, we are, and no, I don’t,” he confirmed evenly. “But circumstantially, which is all we’ve got at the moment, it doesn’t look very good for him. So far there’s no sign that anyone else was even in the house except the two of them. No sign of forced entry. CCTV up the road caught Fisher coming home alone around four-thirty, then Foster coming home alone around six. No other fingerprints in Fisher’s bedroom, just theirs.”

“Which means precisely nothing,” Sherlock said. “There could just as easily have been a visitor who avoided the CCTV and wore gloves. The missing item already suggests someone who knew the victim, so they wouldn’t need to break in.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Lestrade said. “But the question is how they got out again. Foster said the front door was locked when he got home and he locked it again behind him. The back door was locked too. Fisher’s keys were still in his room. All the windows except one in Fisher’s room were locked from the inside. The one that was open could have been the exit, and there is blood around it so the murderer did go over there. But we’re talking two storeys up here.”

He gestured around him for emphasis as they stepped off onto the second floor, then pointed them towards the room at the end of the hall. The one that faced onto the street, John realised. Climbing out a second floor window would certainly be a bit more obvious from this side than it would be from the back of the house.

“Someone could have shimmied down the drainpipe, maybe,” Lestrade said, stopping at the half open door. He pushed it wider and waved them inside. “Even hung off the edge and jumped if they were really game, although I reckon you’d break your leg. But there’s no sign of anyone having done that. No blood, no scuff marks. No blood on the ground outside. In fact no blood anywhere except in this room.”

They had all stopped just inside the doorway. The room was empty of people, although the tidy pile of equipment in one corner said the forensic investigation was still in progress. Lestrade must have cleared everyone out before they got here, John realised. Which would hopefully mean no fight with Anderson either, if they were lucky. Sherlock probably wouldn’t care either way, but John would rather avoid the sniping if they possibly could.

And with no one to immediately snipe at, Sherlock was silent, concentrating instead on looking intently around the room. John fancied he could almost hear the deductions piling up in Sherlock’s head, as those sharp eyes searched and observed and calculated.

John knew he wouldn’t see even a fraction of what Sherlock saw—that had been amply proven time and time again—but he looked anyway, just to feel like he was being useful.

The room was surprisingly tidy, he thought, considering that a violent murder had taken place in it. There was a gruesomely wide bloodstain on the floor, leaving no doubt about where the body had been, but nothing else really seemed to be disturbed. It certainly didn’t look like there had been a fight; nothing was knocked over or broken. It didn’t look like the room had been ransacked, either. But then, Lestrade had already told them that the victim’s watch was the only thing missing. Apparently the murderer-slash-robber hadn’t been interested in even looking for other things to steal. They hadn’t even bothered to grab the laptop that was just sitting on the desk.

Beside him, Sherlock had apparently finished with his own initial observations. He stepped away from the door and began prowling through the room, his eyes still relentlessly scanning. John stayed by the door with Lestrade, not wanting to get in the way.

“Anything you can tell me, Sherlock,” Lestrade said earnestly. “I’ll take anything. The thumbscrews have gone on for this one. Whatever you’ve got, I need it fast.”

Sherlock had crouched down to examine the bloodstain on the floor, and gave no indication that he’d even heard. Knowing it was best to just leave him be until he was ready to talk, John glanced at Lestrade and raised an eyebrow in question. “Thumbscrews?”

Lestrade grimaced. “Thomas Fisher’s family are wealthy, and they’ve got connections. Friends in high places would be an understatement. The pressure’s on, from on high. And so far we’ve got no hard evidence that anyone else was even in here and a pile of circumstantial evidence pointing right at Jonathan Foster.”

John abruptly understood why Lestrade looked so grim—and why he was in such a rush to get Sherlock’s help. “But you don’t think he did it.”

“I don’t, no,” Lestrade said. “Call it a gut feeling. But when there’s pressure like this and there’s no one else to point the finger at, I’m afraid the finger might point at Foster whether I agree with it or not, and no matter how circumstantial the evidence is. And meanwhile the real trail goes cold.”

John nodded his understanding. He might not have had a lot of experience with the police, but he certainly knew about pressure from superiors in a chain of command. “Do you think it would stick if they charged him?” he asked.

“Hard to say,” Lestrade said evenly. “But it might. The timing looks bad for him, with him coming home right around the time of death. His movements once he got home look even worse.” At John’s questioning look, he elaborated: “According to him, the first thing he did when he got home was put his clothes in the wash and have a shower. Not so unusual, and he says it’s because he and Fisher were planning to go out. But you can see how it looks.”

“Like he was cleaning up after himself,” John agreed with a wince. “But what about blood, then? You said there was no blood except in here, so what about when he walked to the shower?”

“He could have stripped in here and been very careful when he put his clothes in the wash,” Lestrade said. “That’s the line they’d take. Someone climbing out the window wouldn’t have had that option, so the finger points right back at him.”

“What about motive, though?” John persisted. “Why would he kill his flatmate, and his—” He hesitated. He’d been about to say ‘friend’, but that wasn’t necessarily a given. “Were they friends?”

“Best mates since first year of university, according to him,” Lestrade said. “But everyone’s seen friendships turn ugly. And Fisher might be from a wealthy family, but Foster isn’t. He’s got debts. Robbery could look like a plausible motive. Or it could have been a crime of passion; maybe they had an argument that got out of hand. Maybe he took the watch to make it look like a robbery, or maybe it was opportunism after the fact.” He shrugged, but John could see the frustration in his face. “Either way the fact that nothing but the watch was taken makes it look even worse for him. Why take that specifically, and nothing else, unless you knew how much it was worth? That says someone who knew Fisher. And combined with everything else it puts Foster right in the spotlight.”

And that combined with the pressure from the family’s ‘connections’ meant they might not look too hard to find anyone else, or at least not without charging Foster first. Lestrade didn’t have to say it for John to understand what he meant. No wonder he’d been so keen to get Sherlock in to have a look.

“Serial killers take trophies sometimes, don’t they?” he offered. He’d seen that on telly enough times; surely there had to be some truth to it. “Could they have taken the watch for that, not knowing what it was worth?”

“It’s possible,” Lestrade conceded. “But you’d need evidence to back it up, similar murders with single items taken from the body. You could say Fisher might have been the first, but when there’s the much simpler explanation of his flatmate having killed him, you’re starting to sound a bit far-fetched. Especially when there’s still the question of how exactly your serial killer got out of the house.”

This was why John wasn’t a policeman; it was all just too bloody complicated. Still, since he was now an assistant to a consulting detective, he felt as though he ought to at least keep trying to get the basics down.

“If his flatmate killed him and took the watch, though, what’s he done with it?” he asked. “And the knife, he wouldn’t have had much time to get rid of it, would he?”

“He could have had half an hour, maybe,” Lestrade said. “Enough time to get a good distance away and stash them, if he was fast. We’ve been checking CCTV, and asking around to see if anyone saw him leave the house again after he got home. Not to mention combing this place in case he’s got them hidden inside somewhere. There’s also a theory that he might have had an accomplice, someone waiting outside who he could pass them to. Which could explain why he went over to the window but didn’t climb out of it.”

John frowned, considering that. “So if he gets charged, then you might have to look for a possible accomplice, too.”

“Yeah,” Lestrade agreed wearily. “Which means more resources on that and less on any other possibilities. So seriously, Sherlock, anything you can tell me—Sherlock, what are you doing?”

John was already halfway across the room even as Lestrade asked the question, since what Sherlock was doing was apparently climbing out of the open window. He already had one leg over the sill, and John didn’t get the impression that he was planning to stop there.

“I need to see outside,” Sherlock said shortly, as John approached.

He didn’t offer any explanation as to why, and John didn’t bother to ask, knowing better than to think he’d get a civil answer when Sherlock was in the middle of deducing things. “All right, fine,” he agreed. “But I’m bloody well going to hold onto you. You could break your neck if you fell from up here.”

Sherlock shot him an exasperated look, but John’s warning one in return apparently convinced him that it wasn’t worth arguing about, at least not where Lestrade could hear them. He allowed John to hold onto his coat as he squeezed himself out of the window, and then tolerated a firm grip on his ankles as he first crouched, and then stood up on the sill outside. He spent several minutes carefully examining the exterior of the house before finally crouching again and sliding back in through the window.

“Well?” Lestrade said, as Sherlock straightened up and shrugged his coat back into place. “Anything?”

“How tall is he?” Sherlock asked, answering with a question. “The flatmate, Foster?”

Lestrade raised an eyebrow, but replied readily. “Around five eight, maybe.”

“Then it wasn’t him,” Sherlock said decisively.

Lestrade blew out a breath. “Okay,” he said. “Great. More, Sherlock. I need more than that.”

Sherlock sighed in a manner that told John a massive bout of showing off was immediately imminent. Sure enough, Sherlock followed up the sigh with a look of studied impatience.

“It never ceases to amaze me just how much you don’t observe,” he said. “Are your eyes even connected to your brains? Look.” He strode over to the bloodstain on the floor, pointing an imperious finger at it.

“The murder happened here. There was blood pooled heavily around the body after it fell but very little spray. The rest of the room is undisturbed. There was no fight. The victim didn’t even have a chance to get a hand up to defend himself. Not only was it a very quick death but he was taken completely by surprise. But not from behind. No, he was facing his killer when it happened.”

He stopped and looked up expectantly, as if he was anticipating an interruption, perhaps in the form of some pointed questions about how he could possibly have got all that from the—to John’s eyes, at least—rather shapeless bloodstain. But John said nothing and Lestrade just gestured resignedly for Sherlock to go on. Apparently satisfied that he wasn’t going to be argued with, Sherlock immediately picked up where he’d left off.

“So obviously, someone he knew,” he said. “After all, whoever it was, he’d been invited in, and not just that but invited up to the victim’s bedroom. He was no stranger. Oh, but it could have been a home invasion, perhaps he threatened his way inside. No.” Sherlock’s briefly conciliatory tone went sharp again, promptly dismissing this imagined objection. “They were standing close together, facing each other, but the victim was still relaxed enough to be caught totally off guard.”

He stepped around the bloodstain, taking up a pose on the other side of it instead, and pointed at two spots on the floor that John assumed was the distance the two had been standing apart. If he was right—and since it was Sherlock, he most likely was—John could see his point. He couldn’t imagine a person voluntarily standing that close to someone who was threatening them, and even if they did, they definitely wouldn’t be relaxed about it.

“So one moment they’re having a conversation and the next there’s a murder going on,” Sherlock continued. “Why was it so sudden? Were they having an argument, was it a crime of passion? No. Again, the victim was caught totally off guard. If they had been arguing that violently, he would have been tense, angry, perhaps even anticipating an attack of some kind. But there’s no sign of any struggle. He was standing, facing his killer, and the attack came out of nowhere.”

He moved around the bloodstain again, almost as if he was circling it, not missing a beat in his torrent of deductions. “An attack from behind would have been less risky for the murderer, but he couldn’t even wait for his victim to turn around,” he went on. “Is he a psychopath who wanted to see his victim’s face as he killed him? No, he attacked that suddenly because he panicked. And why did he panic? Because he heard someone else coming into the house. The victim’s flatmate was home. The timing of him coming home matches the estimated time of death not because the flatmate did it but because the one was the catalyst for the other.”

John blinked. Actually, now that he heard Sherlock say it, that made perfect sense, and it would certainly explain the suspicious timing. It seemed so obvious after hearing it that he felt vaguely like he should have thought of it before.

But Sherlock wasn’t finished. “Now what does all of that say about our murderer?” he asked, then immediately began to answer his own question, the words rattling out like bullets. “He’s physically fit and strong; he’d have to be to attack that fast and that effectively. But he’s erratic, unsure of himself. He had murder on his mind when he came here, that’s why he brought the knife. But if he’d been really committed he could have done it downstairs, the moment the victim turned his back on him. Instead somehow they end up here, chatting upstairs in the victim’s bedroom. Again, is he a psychopath, was he playing games? No, he was trying to get up the nerve to do it. It’s much easier to imagine killing someone than it is to do the actual deed, especially when your prospective victim is looking right at you. Perhaps he was having second thoughts, perhaps he was just stalling.”

He stepped back, glancing towards the bedroom door, then to the open window. “But then he heard the front door. The victim’s flatmate was home. And what if he were to come upstairs? The murderer wasn’t planning on two victims. He might not be able to overpower them both. And if he was seen here by anyone else, even trying again at a later date could be too risky. He panicked; it was now or never, and he chose now.”

There were a few moments of silence after Sherlock finished, and John had the feeling that both he and Lestrade were waiting to see if Sherlock actually planned to stop talking long enough for anyone else to get a word in edgewise. When it seemed that he did, Lestrade gamely took the opportunity.

“Okay,” he said slowly. “That’s all logical, what you’ve said, and it would explain the timing. But it’s speculation, Sherlock. All that stuff about him knowing his killer could just as easily apply to Foster.”

“It’s not speculation,” Sherlock said scathingly. “It’s deduction. And you’re wrong. Look.” He stabbed a finger towards the floor. “There’s a trail of blood to the window. Here. Here. Here.” He strode over to the window, pointing out the spots as he went, following them like a trail of rust-coloured breadcrumbs. John automatically stepped back to get out of his way, Lestrade doing the same beside him.

“It was dripping from the knife as he walked,” Sherlock said. “He was holding the knife out, away from his body.” He demonstrated, holding out an imaginary knife in one hand. “He didn’t want the blood to get on him. He’s just murdered someone who trusted him in cold blood and now he’s squeamish? Not a psychopath. Very likely the first time he’s killed anyone. And he’s tall. The spatter pattern of the drops says he’s at least six foot.”

Sherlock had stopped in front of the open window, both hands held out as if he was framing it with his fingers. His face was intent, his eyes alight with concentration.

“He stopped at the window and he put the knife away,” he said. “It’s a folding knife—see this drop here.” He leaned sideways to point at it. “Further away and it hit with momentum rather than just dripping; it flicked off the knife as he folded it up.”

His hands went back in front of him again, lowering as if to grip the sill. “He went to climb out the window and the blood on his gloves smudged around the sill. More than he thought, it was going to be slippery. But he couldn’t take the gloves off; he’d leave fingerprints. He didn’t want to get the blood on him but then he had no choice. He wiped it off on his clothes and tried again. Out the window he went.”

Sherlock proceeded to demonstrate this, and John hastily stepped forward to grab hold of his coat again. Beside him, Lestrade made a similar instinctive jerk forward, catching himself once he saw that John had hold of Sherlock.

“Sherlock, bloody hell,” Lestrade said tiredly. “Can’t you just tell us from inside?”

“No,” Sherlock replied tersely, already halfway out the window. “Look. He climbed out. He stood up on the sill and held on.”

Sherlock duly stood up and demonstrated holding on, while John demonstrated holding onto Sherlock. Lestrade, looking resigned, opened the other window so that he could lean out and see what Sherlock was doing.

“See here. And here.” Sherlock was pointing out faint rusty smudges, almost invisible against the red brickwork. “Look at the height of them. Here are the ones where he was getting his balance. Here are the ones where he reached up.” He stretched up to put his hands against the spots in question. “I can reach them, just. Depending on the length of his arms, he’s probably taller than me. He’s certainly taller than five eight.”

“Okay, fine, but where did he go?” Lestrade asked in frustration. “Why is there blood up there but none further down? If he climbed  
down he would have left some sign, surely.”

“For God’s sake, isn’t it obvious?” Sherlock said. He sounded faintly incredulous, as if he couldn’t believe the idiocy he was forced to deal with. “He didn’t climb down. He climbed up.”

John blinked and looked again, trying to crane further out of the window while still holding onto Sherlock. At the other window, Lestrade was staring upwards too, his eyebrows dubiously raised.

“Up? From here?” Lestrade’s eyes tracked from the roof to the window and back again in apparent disbelief. “Christ, are we looking for bloody Spiderman?”

John could see his point. There was another storey in between them and the roof and it looked like a near impossible climb, especially for someone who’d been trying to do it in a tearing hurry.

“Difficult but not impossible,” Sherlock said. “But he’s athletic and very agile. It fits; we already know that he’s fast and strong. I need to see the body and I need to talk to the flatmate,” he finished abruptly, and slid back in the window almost before John had even realised what he was doing.

With Sherlock safely back inside, Lestrade straightened up and pulled the other window shut again. “Yeah, okay,” he agreed. He was looking more hopeful now, John thought, despite being doubtful about the feasibility of the climb. “The body’s still at the morgue. Foster’s staying with his parents in Wandsworth. Which one do you want first?”

“The body,” Sherlock decided, and turned to make for the door in a dramatic swirl of coat. John managed not to roll his eyes, but he did exchange a wry glance with Lestrade as they both followed.

They made the trip to the hospital in good time, largely due to John managing to convince Sherlock that it really, honestly wouldn’t hurt to let Lestrade drive them there rather than hunting for a cab. Sherlock complained, but finally agreed on the condition that he got the front seat. Since John didn’t care which seat he got, he was quite happy to agree if it got Sherlock into the car.

At the hospital, Lestrade duly got them in to examine the body, and Sherlock actually stood aside briefly so that John—as the medical professional—could make the initial observations. Just as Sherlock had said, there were no injuries to indicate that there had been a fight, not even defensive wounds. The only visible injury on Thomas Fisher’s body was the one that had killed him, and one look at it told John that death would have been almost instantaneous. It had either been someone who knew what they were doing, or a very lucky blow.

He said as much, and Sherlock took that as an invitation to start his own examination, looking closely at the wound and agreeing with John’s conclusion. “He was dead in seconds,” he said. “Possibly luck, but more likely the murderer has at least some knowledge of anatomy. He struck in a panic, but this wasn’t a wild blow, there was real force behind it. He knew where he wanted to aim.”

He went on from there, his deductions about the murderer and the sequence of events coming in a steady stream of information as he examined the body. Some of it was new, some of it only confirmed what he’d already said at the crime scene, but by the time he was finished John was left in no doubt that their target was a tall, strong and physically fit man, who might very well know enough about anatomy to make him a highly effective killer.

_Brilliant_ , he thought, with grim amusement. Of course, it was far too much to hope for that their murderer would be a skinny midget who didn’t know what he was doing.

Once Sherlock was finished with his observations of the body, their next stop was in Wandsworth, where Jonathan Foster was staying with his parents. Before they went in, John hastily pulled Sherlock aside and reminded him to at least try to be a little sensitive to Jonathan’s emotional state, given that the poor bloke had found his friend murdered just the night before and, according to Sherlock, he hadn’t been the one to do it. Sherlock was impatient with the very idea, but grudgingly acquiesced, although John suspected it was mostly just to shut him up. Still, so long as Sherlock made some attempt not to traumatise Jonathan any further, John would call it a win.

Of course, John thought wryly a few minutes later, there were varying definitions of sensitive. Once they were face to face with Jonathan, Sherlock didn’t even wait for Lestrade to introduce them, just took one look at the young man and stated brusquely, “No.” And then, still without letting anyone else get a word in, he addressed Jonathan directly. “Your friend, Mr Fisher, he fenced. What club did he belong to?”

Jonathan—who appeared pale and a bit red-eyed, but calm—looked understandably confused at this line of questioning, but he answered readily with the name of the club. Sherlock’s eyes gleamed, his expression sharp and intent.

“Did he play any other sports?” he barked. “Belong to any other clubs?”

“Um, no,” Jonathan said, sounding bewildered but still apparently quite willing to cooperate with this madman who was asking him questions. “Not any more. He used to play cricket, but not for a couple of years now. There was this whole thing with the club management, and . . . anyway.” He seemed to catch himself, as if realising he was straying from the topic. “Not any more,” he repeated quietly.

Sherlock gave a sharp nod. “Thank you,” he said tersely. “That’s all I needed. We can go now,” he added to Lestrade, and headed for the front door without another word.

John cast an apologetic look at both Jonathan and Lestrade, and hastily followed Sherlock out, wanting to keep an eye on him. If Sherlock took it into his head to hare off on some new lead, there was no guarantee that he’d wait for them if they weren’t right there. And considering the current profile they had of the murderer, John definitely didn’t want Sherlock going after him alone.

To his relief, though, Sherlock didn’t seem intent on running off anywhere, at least not right at that moment. By the time John caught up with him, he had stopped beside the car and was busy with his phone.

“Open house tomorrow,” he said as John approached, not looking up. “Perfect.”

Before John could ask what that meant, Lestrade caught up to them too, having apparently excused himself almost as quickly as John had. Probably for exactly the same reason, John thought wryly. Lestrade was certainly familiar with Sherlock’s disappearing acts.

“Okay,” Lestrade said, once they were back in the car. “What was all that about? How did you know he fenced?”

“I looked in his wardrobe,” Sherlock said scornfully. “He had recently washed fencing gear in it. Obviously he fenced.”

“Okay, fine,” Lestrade said. John couldn’t see his face from the back seat, but he sounded like he was rolling his eyes. “And you think the person who killed him is someone at this club, then?”

“It’s the most likely explanation,” Sherlock said. “It definitely wasn’t the flatmate, he’s all wrong. Someone who could make that climb onto the roof has to be strong and very agile. Athletic, a sportsman, but not just any kind. We also know it was someone who knew Fisher and knew about the watch. Sports clubs are the logical place to start, and he only belonged to one.”

“Right,” Lestrade said heavily. “I’d better go along and check the place out, then.”

“No,” Sherlock countered at once. “It’s unlikely he’s had time to sell the watch on yet, which means he’ll still have it. But if police come poking around the club he might panic and get rid of it. Of course I’m sure I could still prove it was him, but hard evidence is so much neater in court.”

 “I’ve got to catch him for there to be a court case, Sherlock,” Lestrade reminded him. “How am I supposed to do that if I don’t go and look for him?”

Sherlock heaved an impatient sigh. “We need to know who he is first,” he said, sounding exasperated at having to explain it. “I’ll go. I know how to fence. I can go as a prospective new member. There’s an open house session tomorrow, and as word gets around about Fisher’s murder, more people will be likely to turn up, either out of respect or just because they want to find out what happened. Our murderer certainly will; he won’t want to look suspicious by staying away. I can get his name for you, then you can arrest him as soon as you like.”

“That’s a good plan,” Lestrade said easily, “except for the part where I don’t go along. No deal, Sherlock. You can go, but I’m coming with you.”

“You’re far too obvious,” Sherlock retorted. “The whole point of the plan is to avoid alerting him to how close we are.”

“I don’t care,” Lestrade said. “Your own profile of this guy says that he’s tall, strong, fast and a very effective killer. I’m not having you and John going in there after him without me.”

“That is completely unnecessary,” Sherlock told him icily.

“Tough,” Lestrade replied in an even tone. “I’ll accept a calculated risk to catch him, but we’re doing it as safely as possible. You can go and check the place out, pretend to be joining up, whatever you like. But John and I are both going with you.”

Sherlock made a snarling sound, and even from his position in the back seat John could easily recognise his increasing frustration. He had stayed out of it up until now, but Sherlock was getting dangerously close to tantrum territory, which meant it was time for him to step in before things got out of hand.

“Sherlock, he’s right,” he said. “Your profile of this bloke says he’s dangerous. We might need all the help we can get if it comes to a fight.”

“It’s not going to come to a fight, that’s the whole point,” Sherlock insisted heatedly. “Not if we do it my way!”

“Sherlock,” John said again. This time he injected just enough warning into his voice to—he hoped—quietly remind Sherlock of their arrangement and John’s new role in his life. He wasn’t going to be obvious about it in front of Lestrade, but he wasn’t going to let it slide just because Lestrade was there, either. Sherlock was certainly observant enough to pick up on subtle cues without John having to spell it out.

Apparently his tone penetrated Sherlock’s brewing tantrum, because he turned abruptly in his seat to look over his shoulder, meeting John’s eyes with an expression that was caught somewhere between defiance and frustration. John raised his eyebrows pointedly and answered with a matching warning look.

“It would be an unnecessary risk, Sherlock,” he said evenly, knowing Sherlock would understand exactly what he meant by that.

Sure enough, Sherlock’s eyes widened slightly, and his suddenly wary gaze swept quickly over John’s face and posture, scanning him as if trying to gauge his intent. John made sure his expression stayed firm, trying to clearly project that he wouldn’t be backing down and that Sherlock had better take notice before warnings turned into something stronger. John might not be willing to really reprimand Sherlock in front of Lestrade, but they would be home soon enough, and he was quite willing to do it there.

Sherlock obviously recognised this, because for a moment he looked even more frustrated than before, his eyes flashing and his face tightening with what John read as a kind of conflicted irritation. But it was only for a moment, and then he seemed to abruptly give in, the defiant expression melting away with surprising suddenness. His eyes dropped, and he turned back around and slumped into his seat with a huff of displeasure.

“Fine,” he said sullenly. “He can come.”

“Glad to have your permission,” Lestrade said wryly. If he’d thought there was anything odd about what had just passed between John and Sherlock, he made no comment on it. “Look at it this way,” he added after a moment, sending Sherlock a quick grin. “If it comes to you doing a match, John and I can be your sideline cheering squad.”

Sherlock only huffed again in response, sinking down further into his seat in an obvious sulk. He proceeded to scowl out the window and mutter under his breath most of the way home, making it petulantly clear that while he had agreed, it had only been under sufferance and he wasn’t at all happy about it.

Lestrade cheerfully ignored the epic pouting going on beside him, while John pointed a stern expression at Sherlock’s back that he suspected Sherlock was well aware of, but was choosing to ignore. He was more than a little tempted to put Sherlock down for a smack when they got home for making such a fuss, but decided against it so long as Sherlock stuck to merely grumbling. He might be sulking about it, but he had agreed to Lestrade coming along, and that was the main thing.

Lestrade drove them back to Baker Street, where Sherlock roused from his sulk just long enough to haughtily inform him that they would meet him at the club at midday tomorrow, and for God’s sake not to come in a police car, before stalking off towards the front door of the flat. John cast an apologetic glance at him as Sherlock flounced away, but Lestrade just rolled his eyes.

“See you tomorrow,” he said wryly, adding just before he pulled away, “Good luck.”

John snorted to himself as he headed for the front door. Given the mood Sherlock was in, he suspected he’d probably need luck just to survive the night. Or at least to survive it without spanking Sherlock within an inch of his life, at any rate.

Much to John’s relief, however, it appeared that Sherlock’s pouting had been mostly for Lestrade’s benefit, and since Lestrade was no longer present he apparently felt no need to keep it up. Once they were safely inside the flat he was reasonably tolerable for the rest of the evening, minor moments of stroppiness aside. And by the next morning, he seemed to have forgotten his fit of pique entirely. He came bounding into the kitchen as John was making coffee, and announced grandly, “Change of plans. We’re meeting there in an hour. I’ve got a cab coming for us.”

John—who hadn’t had his coffee yet—didn’t question this, just nodded and set about getting ready to go. In hindsight, this was definitely a mistake. Because when they arrived at the fencing club and there was no sign of Lestrade, it didn’t take him long to figure out that he’d been hoodwinked.

“Sherlock,” he said, as Sherlock began heading straight for the building that housed the club. “We should wait for Lestrade.”

“He’s not coming,” Sherlock said blithely, without breaking stride.

“What do you mean he’s—” The penny dropped then, and John immediately wanted to slap himself in the forehead for not working it out sooner. “Sherlock!” he snapped, and Sherlock turned to face him this time, the look on his face somewhere between sheepish and defiant.

“He’s too obvious, John!” he insisted. “He practically screams police even just looking at him. If the murderer knows that the police are poking around it’ll warn him off. We need to get in there quietly.”

John shook his head in disbelief. “You lied to me,” he said grimly. “Change of plans, you said.” Another thought suddenly occurred to him, and his eyes narrowed in suspicion. “And you were the one who wanted to meet at midday—bloody hell, were you planning this the whole time?”

Sherlock shifted a little where he stood, suddenly not meeting John’s eyes. “I didn’t exactly lie,” he said, avoiding the other question John had asked. “There was a change of plans. I changed them.”

John fixed him with a stern glare, his hand fairly itching with the urge to smack Sherlock then and there. If Sherlock thought even for a moment that he was going to get off on a technicality, he had another bloody think coming.

“You lied to me,” he repeated, with more emphasis this time. “And when we get home, there are going to be consequences.”

Sherlock winced at that, but pleaded nonetheless. “John, this is important. The murderer is a club member, I’m sure of it. There’s an open house session this morning. I can get in there and look around without tipping anyone off.”

And then, when John didn’t seem to be wavering, he added earnestly, “Do you want him to get away with what he did? Do you want to see Jonathan Foster charged with a murder he didn’t commit?”

That was a deliberate attempt at manipulation and John knew it, especially since Sherlock had made a point of saying that he’d be able to prove the murderer’s guilt even without hard evidence. Nevertheless, it had the desired effect. The thought of the obviously grieving young man he’d met last night being charged with his best friend’s murder—something Lestrade had believed was a real possibility—was fairly horrifying.

John gave Sherlock a look of grim promise, but said through gritted teeth, “You know I don’t.”

“Well, come on then!” Sherlock said, as if that settled it, and made straight for the club doors.

And since they were there already, and since John knew damn well there wasn’t going to be any stopping Sherlock anyway, and since he also had absolutely no intention of letting Sherlock go in there to hunt a killer alone, John followed him in. However, he silently vowed that when they got home, Sherlock was going to get a spanking that he wouldn’t soon forget.

_Hunting a murderer who likes stabbing people at a fencing club where there’s lots of access to pointy stabbing things_ , he thought grimly as he followed Sherlock through the double doors into the club building. _And with no police backup. What could possibly go wrong?_

“You be careful,” he hissed as they passed through the doors, and Sherlock waved him off impatiently. John redoubled his vow to take the hairbrush to him the very minute they got home.

Despite his anger, though, he couldn’t help being impressed—and just a little bit amused—as he watched Sherlock paste on a friendly smile as they approached the reception desk. It was a completely uncharacteristic expression if you knew him, but to a stranger it would seem open and quite charming.

“Hi,” Sherlock said, all effusive cheer. “Hope it’s all right that I’ve just walked in. I’m going to be moving in not far from here and I’m looking for a club. Any chance of having a look around?”

The young man on the reception desk smiled in return, nodding genially at them. “Yeah, sure,” he said, getting to his feet and coming out from behind the desk. “New members are always welcome. You been into it long?”

“Oh yes, ever since school,” Sherlock said, still smiling with artful faux friendliness.

“Oh great, that’ll make the regulars happy,” the young man said. “They love a bit of new blood to play with. I’ll show you round, you can see what you think. We’ve got an open house starting in a bit so you can meet some of the usual crowd, too.”

“That sounds perfect,” Sherlock said, and even with the smile firmly in place John could see the almost feral look in his eyes. Sherlock was very keen indeed to meet ‘some of the usual crowd’, but for an entirely different reason.

For his part, John found himself seriously hoping that they could find out who the killer was without actually confronting the bloke himself. He’d be a lot happier about this if they could just provide Lestrade with a name and let the police do the hunting.

Their tour guide, who introduced himself as Jamie, obligingly showed them around the club, while Sherlock made suitably approving noises about the facilities. When Jamie turned them over to some of the early-arriving regulars and went back to man the front desk again, Sherlock fell into conversation with their new fencing friends, who as promised seemed eager to welcome an experienced newcomer to the club. Thankfully, Sherlock had introduced John as ‘interested in taking it up’, so he wasn’t expected to actually know anything about fencing. Good thing too, since he’d played rugby at school and had never held a fencing foil in his life. For that matter, he thought he was doing pretty well to even know that it was called a foil.

More people were starting to drift in by then, John assumed for the aforementioned open house session. He could see that even as Sherlock was making conversation, his eyes went swiftly to every person who came in, raking over them as he searched for someone who would fit his profile. He was very much a hunter on the prowl, and even though John fully intended to put the mighty hunter over his lap and spank him soundly just as soon as they got home, he couldn’t help admiring Sherlock’s single-mindedness. If only he’d just tone it down enough for sanity’s sake.

Their new fencing friends were now waxing lyrical about how welcome everyone was made here, and the diversity of their membership. All different ages and backgrounds, they were earnestly assured. Everyone welcome here. They had people who had learned to fence as young kids right up to those who’d picked it up as adults. There were people who fenced as a main sport, and also plenty who did it to help them train for other things.

“We’ve got footballers, cricketers, track and fielders, dancers,” one man was listing off. “Some netball girls, a couple of rugby players. We’ve even got a bloke who’s a traceur.”

He said the word with a deliberately casual air, and John had the strong impression that he was expecting them to have to ask him what it meant. John would have, actually, since he had frankly no idea what a traceur was. Sherlock, however, apparently did.

“A traceur?” he echoed, and John could hear the sudden shift in his tone, could see the way his eyes had become abruptly and fiercely intent. “Now that _is_ interesting.”

Their new friend blinked a little at the change in tone, but went on gamely. “Yeah, it’s a bit different, eh?”

“I don’t suppose he’ll be here today, will he?” Sherlock asked, still in that hard, too interested tone.

“Um—he should be.” He glanced at the man next to him. “Lennon usually comes Saturdays, doesn’t he?”

It was duly confirmed that he did, and Sherlock’s eyes gleamed. John could almost see the anticipation vibrating through him. “Oh, _good_ ,” he said. “Please _do_ point him out when he arrives. I’d love to meet him.”

John thought he’d better try to catch up here, and quickly, since Sherlock was looking like accosting someone for reasons he didn’t quite understand. “A traceur?” he asked.

“Parkour, John,” Sherlock said, his eyes going back to scan the doors as another knot of people came in. “Free running.” He looked at John then, adding pointedly, “You know, the ones who fling themselves up onto rooftops at a moment’s notice.”

_Oh_. John almost heard the click in his brain as the penny dropped. Of course. How perfect.

“Oh,” one of the fencing friends said, like an echo in a different tone. “Here he is now. Oi, Lennon!”

Sherlock’s head snapped around towards the doors, and John saw the moment when he locked onto his target. His gaze sharpened, hardened, his eyes narrowing as they scanned the man who was approaching them. John could almost hear Sherlock checking off his list of deductions about the murderer, matching them to this new arrival, the hard drive of his mind furiously calculating and confirming.

By the time a somewhat nervous looking Lennon reached them, Sherlock had reached his conclusion. John could see it in his face, and he silently braced himself, ready to back Sherlock up even as a part of his mind really wished that Lennon had decided to stay home today.

“Some newcomers here,” one of their new fencing friends was saying to Lennon. “Interested to hear about your parkour.”

“Oh, right.” Lennon looked a bit relieved, and offered a tentative smile. He was young, mid-twenties maybe, and tall—Sherlock had been right about that; Lennon probably had a good two inches on him. Lean and wiry, a bit gaunt in the face, but he looked fit and most likely strong, too. If it came to a fight, John thought grimly that it might well take both of them to subdue him.

“It gets a lot more attention these days,” Lennon said. The mention of the parkour seemed to have relaxed him somewhat, but he still looked a bit twitchy. His eyes were wide—almost too wide, although he seemed to be trying to avoid looking directly at anyone. “The Bond film and all, you know. You interested in taking it up?”

“Dying to,” Sherlock said, his eyes fixed on Lennon’s face. “I do want to ask, though. Does the cocaine make it better?”

There was a moment of shocked silence. Lennon’s eyes flew up automatically to meet Sherlock’s, and he stammered, “Wh-what? What are you—?”

“Oh, let’s not play games,” Sherlock cut him off impatiently. “You’re a cocaine addict. The signs are quite obvious to anyone who knows what they’re looking for. You’ve shot up recently, too. Do you use before all your athletic activities? I’m sure it would help with parkour, that feeling of invincibility, as though you couldn’t possibly ever miss a step and fall.”

Lennon’s face had begun to flush, a dull, angry brick-red spreading across his cheeks. “What is this?” he asked, his voice rising. “Who are you?”

Sherlock ignored the questions. “You’re a student,” he said. “Physiotherapy, is it? Sports science? Either way, you’re short on funds. And your habit is expensive. You have debts to your dealer but you can’t stop using, can you? You needed money. You were desperate. Is that why you killed Thomas Fisher for his watch?”

Gasps came from the fencing friends. If the silence had been shocked before, it was now utterly stunned. Lennon looked like someone had clocked him over the head with something heavy, his eyes wide, his face panicked and disbelieving.

And then, before anyone could do more than blink, he spun about on his heel and fled for the door.

_That looks like a confession to me_ , John thought, but his moment of grim satisfaction was abruptly cut short as Sherlock, without even a second’s hesitation, bolted after his fleeing quarry.

Oh, hell. He should have seen _that_ coming.

John didn’t hesitate either; he immediately gave chase, hoping desperately that he could catch up. But by the time he reached the front doors Sherlock was already through them and away. “Sherlock!” John shouted after him. Sherlock didn’t stop.

“Bugger!” John growled. But with little choice in the matter—unless he counted letting Sherlock chase an apparently drugged-up murderer alone, which wasn’t even an option—John could do nothing but sprint after him.

He’d thought the mad chase after the cab that time had been ridiculous. But this was worse; this was beyond ridiculous. Going up on rooftops and taking shortcuts through back alleys and climbing over fences was bad enough when you were chasing after something that was on the ground going along the street; when you were chasing something that was _also_ going up on rooftops and taking shortcuts through back alleys and climbing over fences, it turned into absolute bloody lunacy very quickly.

And Lennon was fast—seriously fast. The combination of panic, an apparent cocaine high and what seemed to be a real bloody talent for free running had turned him into a bat out of hell on legs. John had seen that parkour stuff in films, but seeing someone doing it in real life—having to _chase_ someone doing it in real life—was something else entirely.

But if Lennon was a bat out of hell, then Sherlock was on him like a bloody coursing hound, refusing to give up, running him down like the proverbial fox. Okay, so maybe Lennon was a fox, whatever. Sherlock was definitely the hound on the hunt. Everywhere Lennon the bat-fox went, Sherlock doggedly pursued him. And everywhere Sherlock went, John followed, trying desperately not to lose him.

They’d just come pounding into yet another back alley just in time to see Lennon flinging himself rapidly up the side of a building, mostly on the fire escape, but John would swear he seemed almost to be bouncing up the walls at times too. Sherlock lunged for the fire escape, but turned as he gained his feet on the first landing, gesturing wildly down the alley towards the street.

“I don’t know which way he’ll go!” The strain of the chase was evident in his voice; he was gasping for breath and nearly winded. “Split up and cut him off!”

John was pretty damn close to winded himself, but that didn’t lessen his concern for Sherlock, or his desire to put a stop to this insanity before something really went badly wrong. “Sherlock, wait!” he shouted—or at least gasped out in as close to a shout as he could manage when he was this out of breath.

But Sherlock was already pounding up the fire escape. John tried again, tried to sound commanding despite his panting for air, tried desperately to sound like the authority figure that he’d so recently realised Sherlock needed. “Sherlock! _Stop!_ ”

But either Sherlock didn’t hear him or he was ignoring him, because he just kept scrambling up the fire escape. John hesitated a moment longer, but Sherlock was high enough up now that John would fall badly behind if he tried chasing him up to the rooftop. His best bet now was just to do as Sherlock had instructed, and go round to the road so that he could try to cut Lennon off.

Although he honestly had no idea how he was supposed to cut anyone off when they were up on the roof and he was down on the street. He could only assume that Sherlock must know something he didn’t, with that bloody map of London in his head. Christ, John thought wildly, did he even have the rooftops memorised?

He shouted up a parting order to Sherlock, not knowing whether or not he’d even hear it. “Don’t do anything mad!”

Although as he began to run, he thought he really ought to have said madd _er_ , because as far as he was concerned they were already well into the realms of mad right here.

But there was no help for it now, and so John sprinted down the alley towards the road, swearing silently in his head the whole way. Oh, but Sherlock was going to regret this insanity. When John got him home, Sherlock was not going to know what had hit him. No, scratch that, actually he was going to know what had hit him, because John was going to make him fetch that bloody hairbrush and get a bloody good look at it, right before he put Sherlock over his lap and walloped him with it until he couldn’t sit for a week.

He reached the road in a panting mess, and had to stop for a moment to gasp for air, leaning over to brace himself on his knees for a few, blissful seconds. Then he forced himself upright again, looking frantically up and around, hoping for a glimpse of either Sherlock or Lennon. He saw neither, and after a moment or two he began to move again, hurrying along the pavement, scanning the streets and the rooftops to the point of turning in circles, not caring that he must look half out of his mind.

Nothing. Nothing. Oh God, where were they? Had he lost them completely? Had Sherlock got it wrong when he’d pointed him down here, and they’d ended up going the other way?

John was just on the verge of starting to panic, thinking of all the ways in which things could go terribly, horribly wrong if he really had lost them, when a bus roared past him on the other side of the street. And then his jaw dropped, as his eyes moved along the wall of red double decker and he realised that Lennon was on top of it.

Christ, John thought in amazement, he must have jumped off the roof right onto the bloody thing. Oh yes, they were most definitely _well_ into the realms of mad right here.

Of course, his astonishment on seeing their quarry surfing a bus down the road was nothing compared to the shock he got a few moments later, when a second bus went past following the first. Because this one also had a passenger riding on top of it, and it was none other than his bloody lunatic consulting detective flatmate.

For a long moment John just gaped, open-mouthed, as the bus and its rooftop passenger went roaring down the street. Then the adrenaline abruptly kicked in again, as he suddenly realised that if he didn’t find a way to follow them right bloody now he really _was_ going to lose them, and then Sherlock really _would_ be chasing a drugged-up murderer alone. Which was still not even an option, and John would be damned if he was about to let it happen.

He glanced around desperately, hoping for a miracle, or failing that, a cab. Apparently the gods of saving deranged flatmates were with him, because within seconds he had spotted a vacant cab just coming around the corner. John flagged it down madly and sprinted across to throw himself into the front seat.

“Police,” he gasped, silently adding ‘sort of’. “Follow that bus!”

If he’d been any less frantic, he would have cringed. People just didn’t _say_ things like that in real life. But then, it wasn’t exactly normal and okay to pretend to be a police officer and commandeer a cab to chase down a man riding a bus, either. There seemed to be some major discrepancies these days between normal real life and John’s life.

The cab driver, thank God, didn’t ask any difficult questions, or even demand to see any ID. Maybe he was in the mood for some excitement on an otherwise dull Saturday. Hell, perhaps he’d always secretly longed to have someone jump into his cab and shout, ‘Follow that car!’ Whatever the reason, he gamely put his foot down and gave chase.

The cabbie didn’t need to ask which bus he was following, although if he had John would have been tempted to reply, ‘the one with the lunatic on top of it’. Sherlock was _insane_ , he was stark raving _mad_ , there was simply no question about it. And when John got him home—provided he was still in one piece at the end of this—he was going to kill him.

No. He was going to spank him. He was going to spank him so thoroughly that every other spanking he’d had so far was going to seem like patty-cake in comparison. And then he was going to stand him in the corner for the rest of the bloody afternoon. And _then_ he was going to send him to bed with no dessert because he didn’t bloody deserve any. And if he could think of any other punishments in between now and then, he was going to do them too!

_He sure as hell won’t be playing outside_ , he thought wildly, Sherlock’s list of possible punishments suddenly popping back into his head. And bloody hell, maybe he would confiscate that bloody chemistry set after all!

But before any of that could happen, he somehow had to get Sherlock off the bus he was riding. The cabbie was doing a good job of keeping up, even though they were behind in the traffic a way, and from where they were John could see Sherlock hunched down in a low crouch on the roof of the bus, bracing with his hands for balance. He couldn’t see ahead to the bus Lennon was on, but he assumed that he must still be on it. If he wasn’t, Sherlock would have been throwing himself off his bus to resume the chase, no matter how far it was to the bloody ground.

Please God, let them stop, he thought. There had to be another bus stop soon. Once one of them stopped, then surely he’d be able to jump out and do something to end this insanity. He only wished he had some bloody backup along with him. If only Sherlock hadn’t ditched Lestrade . . .

John abruptly realised, with a hard mental slap to his own forehead, that now that he wasn’t involved in a psychotic footrace he could actually use his bloody phone and call for help. Snatching it out of his pocket, he hastily called Lestrade and relayed the situation. Lestrade, who was after all not unfamiliar with Sherlock’s antics, sounded irritated but resigned, his only real reaction being to John’s description of exactly where Sherlock was.

“He’s on top of a _bus?_ ”

“He’s riding the bloody thing!” John replied, hearing the exasperation in his own voice along with the urgency. “So is the murderer, on another one. You’ve got to get someone out here and stop them.”

“I’m on my way. Stay with them if you can, keep sending me your location,” Lestrade said shortly, and hung up.

God bless Greg Lestrade, John thought fervently. Now all they needed was the police to get here and the bloody buses to stop, and this lunacy could end.

But the buses certainly weren’t stopping yet. They just kept on going, and it wasn’t until they passed a bus stop that John clearly recognised as such, complete with people waiting, that he looked more closely at the bus Sherlock was riding and realised that he couldn’t actually see anyone on it.

Oh, bloody hell, he thought. Was Lennon’s bus empty too? Were they going back to the depot? Or heading off somewhere for a special pick up? Either way, that meant they probably weren’t going to be stopping anytime soon. It also meant they’d probably just follow each other the whole way.

Although now that he thought about it, that might actually be a good thing, since at least it meant Sherlock wouldn’t be leaping off the top of his bus to continue the chase because Lennon’s one had taken a different route. With any luck, John thought, they’d both just bloody stay up there until the police arrived and stopped them. Which could really happen any time now, as far as John was concerned.

Unfortunately, the positive aspect of the buses staying together was rather quickly countered by another negative one. The buses had both rounded a corner, and as the traffic caught up and John’s cab followed them round, John realised with sudden horror exactly where they were heading.

Oh, Jesus Christ, no, he thought in dismay. Straight for the motorway junction. Straight for the bloody _motorway_. And he had no way of stopping them, none, not until the police got here.

He hastily texted Lestrade again, letting him know which junction they were getting on at, and barely restrained himself from adding ‘hurry’ in block capitals on the end. The cabbie, bless him too, was staying doggedly behind the bus Sherlock was riding, albeit back in the queue a way. As they merged into the faster moving motorway traffic, they were far enough back and on enough of a slope that John was able to see Sherlock more clearly. He was low on his hands and knees now, most likely to brace against the increased speed. John stared desperately out the window and silently prayed that Sherlock wouldn’t do something else mad and fall off into traffic.

His phone suddenly rang, making him jump violently. The screen displayed the caller: Sherlock Holmes. John looked up again even as he answered, but from this angle and with Sherlock hunched down like that, it was impossible to see him holding his phone.

Sherlock’s voice came through clearly though, along with the roar of the bus beneath him. “John, where are you?”

“I’m in a cab,” John snapped, his voice hard with mingled fear and fury. “I’m right behind you.”

There was a pause, and then Sherlock replied, sounding infuriatingly unruffled. “John, you’ll have to speak up, I’m on a bus.”

If John hadn’t been so angry, he would have rolled his eyes. He was on a bus. Yes, he bloody well was on a bus, but he wasn’t on it in anything like the normal fashion and it just wasn’t on to pretend otherwise!

“I know you’re on a bus!” He shouted it this time, both so that Sherlock could hear him and out of sheer frustration. “I can see you, because I’m in a cab right behind you!”

He saw Sherlock turn, still on his hands and knees, saw him look around as if he was trying to scan the traffic. “I can’t see you.”

This time John’s shouting had everything to do with frustration and nothing whatsoever to do with Sherlock being able to hear him. “That’s because I’m in the cab, not on it!”

Another pause. Then Sherlock said, “Wave, would you?”

The urge to wring Sherlock’s neck had never been so strong. But since he couldn’t currently reach Sherlock to do it, John channelled the desire into winding down the window, sticking his arm out and waving. A moment later Sherlock’s satisfied voice came over the phone. “Oh, I see you now.”

“I’ve called Lestrade,” John told him in return, loudly. “He’s on his way.”

Even as he said it he realised that he could dimly hear sirens in the distance. The cavalry was coming. Thank Christ for that.

“That’ll be them now!” he called to Sherlock, feeling a rush of relief at knowing that this insane escapade was shortly going to be over. “Just stay put!”

Unfortunately, John’s relief was short-lived, because just then—unbelievably—things got even worse. The heavy motorway traffic began to slow down in fits and starts, perhaps in response to the cavalcade of rapidly nearing sirens. Lennon’s bus, for whatever reason, managed to find a gap in the traffic and eased over a lane. For the first time since he’d got in the cab, John was able to see him too, riding the bus rooftop low on his hands and knees just like Sherlock was doing. And as his bus slowed, Sherlock’s bus began to gradually pull up level with it.

And Sherlock, never one to waste an opportunity for some really blatant insanity, got up off his hands and knees into a tight, ready crouch that left little doubt about what he intended to do.

“No, no!” John was shouting into the phone, even though he knew Sherlock wouldn’t be listening to it anymore; he hadn’t hung up but he’d probably already shoved it into his pocket. John didn’t care, it was all he had and if he couldn’t shout at Sherlock directly then he was bloody well going to shout down their open phone connection. “Sherlock, don’t you do it!”

He knew it probably wouldn’t have made any difference even if Sherlock could hear him, and it certainly made no difference at all when he couldn’t. Sure enough, just as soon as the buses drew level enough to give him room, Sherlock jumped.

John cringed in his seat, the cabbie swore, but Sherlock made it. Of course he did, deranged bloody lunatic that he was.

Sherlock’s flying leap took him across the space between the lanes, directly onto the top of the other bus. Bent into a half-crouch, he made straight for Lennon, who had turned to face him and apparently had no intention of giving up without a fight. As John watched in horror, the two of them actually began, ridiculously, to struggle on the narrow space available to them. Lennon was making obvious attempts to tip Sherlock off the side, but then Sherlock must have tripped him, or else he’d simply tripped himself, because they both fell and continued the fight prone. Not that it looked any better; now they both seemed in imminent danger of rolling off the bloody bus instead.

“Oh Christ, oh Christ,” John heard himself saying, his hands white-knuckled on the dashboard as he watched. He longed to get out and help, but the traffic was heavy and still too fast, and even if he made it to the bus he’d have no easy way to get up on top.

“Come on, come on,” he chanted instead, hearing the sirens pulling closer. “Damn it Lestrade, hurry up!”

And then, thank God, he saw a police car go racing past on the hard shoulder, quickly followed by two more. In moments they were level with the two buses, calling on the loudspeakers for the drivers to stop.

Both of the bus drivers hastily obeyed—but too hard, the brakes slamming on with twin screeches of protest. Sherlock and Lennon, caught in their clinch on the bus roof, had no time to brace for the sudden stop and went tumbling forwards along the narrow length. John’s heart leapt into his throat, and he just had time to think desperately, _Oh Christ they’re going to go right off the front—_

But they didn’t. They fetched up right on the edge, the momentum from the sudden stop carrying them just short of disaster. Not that they seemed to have noticed; they were still locked together in what looked like a vicious struggle even from where John was sitting. Sherlock was underneath, and bloody hell, they were so close to falling off that John thought his head might actually be hanging off the edge of the bus. _Don’t fall, please don’t fall_ , John begged anything that might be listening.

Traffic had stopped all around them, and the police were out of their cars now, scrambling to surround the bus, guns out and no doubt shouting up to the combatants. As the cab he was in came to a stop with everyone else, John flung himself out the door and over onto the hard shoulder before sprinting up to join them.

He arrived just in time to see Sherlock finally manage to buck Lennon off him, flipping him over so that he rolled away into thin air. Lennon just managed to grab the edge of the bus roof as he went over it, clutching and scrambling for purchase, but the sides were too slick and he fell anyway. He did some sort of weird little half bounce off the front of the bus, and landed on the ground in an ungainly roll that took him staggering back to his feet. If he hadn’t been surrounded by police, John thought he might actually have been able to make a run for it. As it was, though, the circle of guns and badges and shouts to put his hands up were enough to stop him dead, and the swarm of police were on him in seconds.

John looked up at the roof of the bus, where Sherlock had rolled over and sat himself up on the edge, feet dangling over. He looked out of breath but maddeningly pleased with himself, and John’s initial rush of dizzying relief that he was all right quickly began to give way to near incandescent fury.

Lestrade was suddenly at his side, exchanging a look with him that told John he knew exactly how he was feeling. He looked up at Sherlock and sighed. “I suppose we’d better get him down from there, somehow.”

“He’d be safer staying up there,” John said grimly, and Lestrade gave a snort, looking unwillingly amused.

“Drives you mad, doesn’t he?” he said, and looked up at the bus roof again. “Bloody hell, that’s high. How the hell are we going to—” He broke off and glanced around at the stationary traffic. “That’ll do,” he muttered, then he strode off towards a signposted painter’s van a couple of cars ahead. “Oi, mate,” John heard him say. “Would you mind someone jumping on your roof?”

Solution found, after a bit of wiggling traffic around the obliging van driver duly positioned himself in front of the bus. The slide from the bus roof to the van was much less perilous, and soon Sherlock was safely back on the ground. He initially wore the same pleased smirk he’d sported when he was on top of the bus, but then he caught sight of John and his eyes widened. The smirk dropped instantly from his face and was replaced by a look of wary apprehension.

Good, John thought grimly. Sherlock just bloody well ought to be apprehensive, and he’d be a lot more than that just as soon as John got him home.

He strode forward to look Sherlock over, taking in the swelling on his cheekbone and the slightly uncomfortable way he was holding himself. “Are you all right?” he asked, his very real concern softening some of the sternness of his tone.

Sherlock nodded. “I’m fine,” he said quietly, still looking at John with wide, wary eyes.

John gave him a look in return that said he was unconvinced by this claim. “I’ll have a proper look at you when we get home,” he said firmly. “And then we’re going to have a very long talk about what you did today.”

This time, the note of stern promise in his tone made it very clear that there was going to be a lot more than just talking going on. Sherlock winced, giving him a faintly pleading look which John ignored.

Lennon had already been bundled into the back of a police car, and Lestrade was looking around at the endless lines of stopped traffic and scowling. He turned to Sherlock with a look of heavy irritation.

“I’ll be having words with you about this later, Sherlock,” he said. “For now, John can take you home. But words, later!” Warning duly given, he called over to one of the other officers, asking them to give John and Sherlock a lift home.

“I’d better go and pay the cab driver,” John said. “Poor sod’s still stuck back there.”

“I’ll handle it,” Lestrade said. “You just get him home and patch him up. We’ll be ages sorting this mess out anyway. Which one is it?”

John gratefully pointed out the cab, and minutes later he and Sherlock were in the back of a police car, heading for the next junction to work their way home.

The drive home was made in total silence. John was frankly too angry to talk, and he suspected Sherlock didn’t dare, not after realising just how furious he really was. But while John didn’t speak, he was nevertheless thinking—and planning—all the way back to Baker Street.

In the frantic moments that he’d thought about it while this lunatic escapade had been going on, he’d been mentally promising Sherlock a spanking for it—a bloody hard one, yes, but he’d still been thinking along the lines of the hairbrush. But now that it was all over, now that the rush of adrenaline had subsided and John had calmed down enough to be able to consider it properly, he’d quickly come to the conclusion that a spanking was nowhere near enough for something like this.

Over the mere two and a half weeks since their disciplinary arrangement had begun, John had already put the hairbrush to use on several occasions, as Sherlock continued to determinedly test the waters of their new relationship. But none of that recent misbehaviour had been anything like this. No, this was on a whole other level; this was on par with the incident which had started their arrangement in the first place. And Christ, how the hell had Sherlock managed two such pieces of absolute madness in such quick succession anyway?

Well, because he was Sherlock, of course. And really, it didn’t much matter how he’d managed it, it only mattered that he had, and that now—as they’d agreed—it was up to John to discipline him for it. And for something this serious, something this _dangerous_ , a spanking was not going to do the job. No, this time, when they got home, John was breaking out the cane.

Bloody hell, he thought, feeling genuinely dismayed at the prospect. When Mycroft’s little gift box had first arrived, John had truly thought it would be ages before he was driven to actually use one of them—if he ever even was, and he’d been rather hoping that he wouldn’t be. Instead, he’d lasted a whole two weeks.

But Sherlock had earned it. There was no question about that. This had been reckless insanity on a grand and lunatic scale, and Sherlock _was_ going to regret being so utterly and blatantly careless with his own life. John was going to make very, very sure of that.

And by the time they arrived back at the flat, he had a pretty comprehensive plan in place for exactly how he was going to achieve it.

 


	2. The Cane

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, here’s the real warning this time: the cane gets used in this chapter. If this is something you’re not keen on, please give this one a miss. The next chapter will be cane-free again, so if you’d like to you can always come back in there and just take it as read that Sherlock got the cane in this one.
> 
> For those who do read on, be aware that Sherlock reacts pretty strongly here, and isn’t at all his usual stoic self. John isn’t actually being brutal with him, but Sherlock has just had a very tiring morning and the cane has some bad associations for him. But just in case that’s going to bother anyone, I wanted to cover the warning bases.

 

John had been grim and silent on the ride home, but the moment they were safely inside 221B, his plan went into action. He didn’t even give Sherlock a chance to speak, merely pointed sternly in the direction of the hall that led to Sherlock’s room.

“Go and get your pyjamas, go upstairs and have a shower,” he ordered. “When you’re finished, you can wait for me in my bedroom.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened with alarm, and he echoed tentatively, “Your bedroom?”

John could understand his confusion. Their arrangement wasn’t even three weeks old, but still, all of Sherlock’s punishments thus far (except the very first one) had been given in _his_ bedroom. The change of location this time was mainly for convenience—John’s first aid kit and the box of canes were both upstairs—but also because once John started scolding Sherlock about this, he frankly didn’t trust himself not to start shouting. And if that happened, he’d rather have another floor between them and Mrs Hudson, just for the sake of privacy.

He didn’t explain this to Sherlock, though. This was not the time for explaining, this was the time for Sherlock to do as he was told or get smacked. “My bedroom,” he confirmed, and pointed towards Sherlock’s room again. “Pyjamas, then you upstairs in the shower, right now.”

Sherlock cast him an unhappy, half-pleading look, but didn’t argue. He headed obediently for his room and was out again in moments, pyjamas tucked under his arm. As John watched him with a stern, expectant gaze, Sherlock took another quick look at his face and then hastily made for the door onto the landing. John heard his footsteps on the stairs, and then the faint thud of the bathroom door closing.

Right, he thought grimly. That was Sherlock taken care of for the moment. Now John just needed to get himself sorted out so that he’d be ready to deal with him. He was going to need a shower too, first of all—after that ridiculous chase, his whole body felt stiff with dried sweat. With that in mind, he went quickly upstairs to get a change of clothes before heading back down to the living room. That way he wouldn’t need to interrupt Sherlock’s waiting time, because frankly he thought Sherlock thoroughly deserved a nervous wait after his insane behaviour.

He sank down onto the couch to wait for Sherlock to finish in the shower, only now starting to become aware of just how tired he was. The chase and the seemingly endless adrenaline rush had taken a lot out of him. He knew he’d probably be a lot more tired too, if he wasn’t still so pissed off.

Well, there’d be plenty of time to take a nap after he’d given Sherlock what he had coming to him. Sherlock would most likely need some serious comforting after this was all over, so he’d probably appreciate having John to cuddle up to in bed for a while.

He sat on the couch, feeling increasingly uncomfortable in his sweaty clothes, for the twenty-odd minutes that Sherlock was in the shower. Once he’d heard the telltale sounds from the floor above of one door opening and another closing, he went straight up to get in the shower himself, breathing a sigh of relief as he stepped under the hot water.

He used the time in the shower to get himself into the right frame of mind for what was coming next, readying himself to be the stern, unyielding disciplinarian until the punishment was finished. This was going to be hard on Sherlock, and John couldn’t let himself waver, not after what had gone on today. He’d initiated this arrangement in the first place because he really believed that Sherlock’s life might actually depend on having someone to rein him in, and today’s incident had only cemented that opinion.

He focused on that, and on Sherlock’s behaviour—or rather on the very long and epic list of Sherlock’s _mis_ behaviour—and by the time he got out of the shower he was certain he was in the right headspace to carry on with the punishment. Moving quickly and efficiently, he got dressed, brushed his hair, glanced in the mirror—surprising himself a bit with just how grim and stern he appeared—then took a last deep, steadying breath and headed for his bedroom.

Sherlock had been sitting stiffly on the bed, but he shot to his feet as John came in, eyeing him with obvious trepidation. He was wearing the mutely appealing ‘please don’t spank me’ expression that John was already growing very familiar with.

“No, you sit,” John said firmly. “I need to have a look at the damage before we go any further.” He could already see that the swelling on Sherlock’s cheekbone was starting to darken into a bruise, and who knew how many more he’d acquired along with it. After an escapade like that John wasn’t prepared to punish Sherlock until he’d fully checked him over; he’d treat any injuries first, and make sure that Sherlock really was all right. Once he’d done the doctoring and determined that Sherlock was actually fit for it, then they’d get on to the punishment.

When Sherlock didn’t immediately comply, John pointed a finger at the bed and spoke more sternly. “Sherlock, sit down and take your top off. Right now, please.”

But Sherlock continued to hesitate, hovering uncertainly by the bed. “I really am fine,” he offered tentatively.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” John said. His tone was sharp now, intended to convey that he wasn’t going to put up with any nonsense. “I’m the doctor here, and in case you haven’t noticed, you’re in a great deal of trouble. If you want to make it worse, that’s up to you. Now you either do as you’re told and do it now, or you’re getting smacked before your punishment even starts.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened in alarm at that, and he hastily sat down on the bed without another word. As John raised an expectant eyebrow, he yanked his t-shirt off and sat up ramrod-straight, his hands folded meekly in his lap as he watched John anxiously.

“Good choice,” John said. “But I’m telling you right now, Sherlock: that was your last warning. From now on, for the duration of your punishment, any disobedience or backtalk, anytime you don’t do what you’re told, when you’re told, earns you extra. Keep that firmly in mind, because how much extra you earn is entirely up to you.”

He held Sherlock’s gaze as he spoke, conveying with his tone and his expression just how serious he was. Sherlock’s wide, worried eyes and earnest nodding in response told John that the message had been received, although it would remain to be seen just how well Sherlock could stick to it.

“Good,” he said firmly. “Now, let’s have a look at you.” He took Sherlock’s chin in his hand and began carefully turning his face this way and that, casting a critical eye over the darkening bruise on his cheek. He probed very gently around the bone under the swollen area, noting Sherlock’s wince despite his light touch.

“I think that’s going to be too low to give you a black eye, but even so. I’ll get you some ice to put on it later, just to take some of the heat out,” John said. With the visible bruise duly checked, he began carefully running his fingertips over Sherlock’s scalp, checking for any bumps. Not finding any, he fished in his first aid kit for a penlight and shone it briefly into each of Sherlock’s eyes in turn, checking the pupil dilation.

“Normal,” he confirmed. “Good. No headache? Didn’t smack your head on the bus roof at any point while you were mucking about up there?”

Sherlock shook his head warily, and John gave a sharp nod in reply. “Right. Good. Any bumps or bruises anywhere else? Anything that hurts, I want to know about it.” He was already casting his eyes over Sherlock’s arms and chest, checking for any telltale marks on his fair skin.

Sherlock shook his head once, then hesitated. “There … might be one or two on my back,” he offered diffidently.

John gestured for him to turn around, and Sherlock obediently swivelled himself on the bed, tucking a knee up so that he could turn. John gently probed across his shoulder blades and around his ribs, finding a few more reddened, slightly swollen areas on the bony parts that would likely become bruises. From the fight on the bus rooftop, no doubt, although it looked like Sherlock’s layers of clothing had taken the edge off the impacts.

“All right,” he said finally. “There’s nothing too serious there, but I’ll put some arnica cream on them later. You can put your top back on.” Sherlock did, and once he was settled again John gestured towards his lower body. “Anything lower down? Bruises, sore bits? If there are, tell me now. I’m going to be seeing it later anyway, and I’m not going to be happy if you’re bruised and you didn’t tell me.”

Sherlock flushed a little, probably at the reminder that John was going to be ‘seeing it later anyway’, and dropped his eyes. “My, um—my knee’s a bit sore,” he said uncomfortably. He seemed quite taken aback by this whole examination, and John wondered if it was surprise because he’d expected punishment straight away, or if he just wasn’t accustomed to being checked over so carefully after he’d done something dangerous. Maybe it was a bit of both.

In lieu of making Sherlock take his pyjama bottoms off—because he’d be doing that soon enough as it was—John rolled them up on the indicated side and checked Sherlock’s knee, feeling around the joint and testing the mobility. That, too, was nothing more than a bruise, but he made a mental note to put cream on it too later.

Finally, he was satisfied that Sherlock really was all right, give or take a few bruises. However, that meant that it was time to get on with the punishment, and John made sure that his disciplinarian demeanour was firmly in place as he straightened up and stepped back from the bed.

“All right, stand up,” he said, and Sherlock quickly got to his feet again, his eyes going wide and wary as John fixed him with a stern gaze and then went on with a tone to match it.

“This isn’t going to be a light punishment, Sherlock,” he said. “You went completely off the deep end today, and the consequences are going to reflect that. Before we get started, you’re going to do corner time and you’re going to think very, very hard about everything you did wrong today. But first of all, I’m going to give you a taste of what’s coming. Maybe it’ll help you think a bit harder while you’re in the corner.”

With that, he turned and walked across to the corner by his desk, where he’d stashed the box of canes. He heard Sherlock’s sharp intake of breath as he realised John’s intention, and when he returned holding the thinnest of the canes he saw Sherlock swallow hard, his eyes fixed on the slender stick in John’s hand and his breathing speeding up in obvious anxiety.

John felt a pang of sympathy for Sherlock’s clear distress, but he ruthlessly forced it down. There was no room for sympathy yet. Once this was over, then he’d gladly take Sherlock in his arms and cuddle and soothe him. But for right now, he couldn’t afford to waver even a little.

“This isn’t the cane you’re getting your main punishment with, either,” he said, keeping his gaze steady as Sherlock’s eyes flew to his in alarm. “I told you this wasn’t going to be a light punishment.”

Sherlock looked horrified, his gaze darting back and forth from the cane to John’s face, as if he couldn’t keep his eyes off it for more than a few moments. “John … please,” he said, finally locking eyes with John in desperate appeal. “Please don’t use that. Can’t you just spank me? I know I was wrong, I know—I know I went too far today, but—please.”

John shook his head, determinedly keeping his expression firm and unwavering. “No, Sherlock. You did go too far today. Much, much too far for a spanking to do the job. I really didn’t think I’d have to resort to using a cane on you so soon, but you’ve earned it several times over with your behaviour today.” He let his voice become even sterner as he added, “You need to learn a lesson about being so reckless with your own life, Sherlock Holmes, and if I have to cane you to help you learn that lesson, then you’d better believe that I will.”

And as Sherlock stared at him, distress scrawled nakedly across his face, John pointed to the end of his bed with the cane. “Stand there. Pyjama bottoms down, bend over and put your hands on the bed. Right now, or it’s extra.”

Sherlock looked so miserable that despite his very real anger, John found himself longing to pull him into a hug. He didn’t let so much as a hint of it cross his face, though, and after a last pleading look of mute appeal, Sherlock reluctantly did as he was told. He sidled over to the indicated spot at the end of the bed, then very slowly hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his pyjama bottoms. There was a momentary pause, as if he was trying to steel himself, but then with a quick, shaky intake of breath, he pushed his pyjamas down over his hips and let them fall.

He couldn’t seem to resist casting one final unhappy glance over his shoulder at John, as if he was still hoping for a last minute reprieve. But John just raised an expectant eyebrow at him, refusing to be swayed, and pointed firmly towards the bed. Sherlock’s shoulders slumped and he heaved a woeful, crestfallen sigh, but after only a moment he obediently faced forward again. John heard him take a deep breath, and then he very gingerly bent over, keeping his knees straight and putting his hands flat on the bed.

“Right,” John said, stepping up to position himself behind Sherlock and a little to his right. “One stroke, as an opener, and then you’re going to do corner time.”

He brought the cane up and rested it lightly across Sherlock’s bottom, about midway down his cheeks. Sherlock flinched slightly and sucked in his breath hard as he felt it touch, and John saw his hands clench convulsively into the duvet.

Thinking that he probably ought to just get this first stroke over with quickly, John gave a couple of light taps with the cane to gauge the distance, and allowed himself to unbend just enough to warn, “Here we go. Deep breath.”

He heard Sherlock doing just that, obviously bracing himself, and then John raised the cane high, took a second or two to mentally run through everything he’d been taught about using it, and cracked it down hard across Sherlock’s bottom.

Apparently those caning lessons had stuck, because the stroke landed neatly right where he’d intended, smacking in a perfect horizontal line across both cheeks of Sherlock’s bottom. Sherlock jumped hard as it connected, gasping, and then a few seconds later his whole body stiffened, and he made a soft sound that was very much like a stifled whine. Remembering his own experience with his caning ‘demonstration’, John suspected that the real sting of the stroke had just kicked in.

To his credit, though, Sherlock remained obediently bent over, his hands staying firmly clutched around the duvet. John recalled Sherlock saying that when he was at school, standing up before permission was given would earn him extra strokes. It seemed those old habits might still be with him.

“You can stand up,” he said, and Sherlock immediately shot to his feet, both hands going behind him to rub gingerly at the stripe across his bottom. John gave him a moment to soothe himself, then said sternly, “All right, that’s enough rubbing. You can pull your pyjamas up, and then it’s corner time. Over there.” He pointed to the one empty corner in the room.

Sherlock bent over to tug his pyjamas back up, and John got a look at the vivid pink stripe that had risen up across his bottom. He knew how much it must sting, but he also knew he couldn’t afford to feel too much sympathy. That one stripe was only the beginning; Sherlock had a lot more coming to him before John would consider this punishment over.

Once Sherlock had carefully pulled his pyjamas back into place, he turned to look mournfully at John, his expression so forlorn that John had to clamp down hard on the urge to just hug him then and there. He indicated the corner again instead, giving Sherlock a firm, expectant look. “Corner time,” he said again. “Now.”

Sherlock heaved another miserable sigh, but trudged reluctantly across to the corner, positioning himself in the now familiar stance—nose to the wall, back straight, and hands clasped in the small of his back. John saw his hands twitch lower as if he wished he could keep rubbing, but then he twisted his fingers together and deliberately raised them up, pressing them against his lower back.

“You know the rules,” John told him. “Stand still, face to the wall and no talking. You think about everything you did wrong today, and think hard, Sherlock Holmes, because I’m going to be asking and your answers had better be good. Fifteen minutes, starting now.”

Instructions delivered, John went to replace the cane in the box—he’d be exchanging it for a more severe one when the time came for Sherlock’s real punishment—and then sat down on the bed where he could keep an eye on Sherlock. He intended to take the hard line he’d promised Sherlock earlier, and any nonsense in the corner would be on the list of things that earned him extra.

Not that John was really expecting any, not if Sherlock had any sense, at least. Sherlock had hated corner time from the very first time John made him do it, which admittedly had only been two weeks ago, but he’d already had enough experience of it to know what was expected of him. He knew quite well (also from experience) that playing up while he was in the corner only resulted in more smacks and more corner time, and he was certainly clever enough to work out that playing up after misbehaving so horrifically would not be a good idea.

Or so John thought, at least. But Sherlock quickly disabused him of that notion, because while the first half of his corner time went smoothly, the second half was nothing short of a disaster.

They were just about at the halfway mark when Sherlock first began to fidget, rolling his shoulders and giving a little shuffle of his feet. Despite his vow to take a hard line, John would probably have let that go if that had been all there was, knowing that Sherlock had some bruises which might have been getting stiff. But the fidgeting didn’t stop, and after the third foot shuffle John knew he couldn’t ignore it any further.

He got up from the bed and crossed to where Sherlock was standing, seeing Sherlock hastily straighten up as he approached. “Take a step back,” he ordered sharply.

Sherlock obeyed with understandable reluctance, since he knew from experience exactly what that instruction heralded. John put a firm hand between his shoulder blades and bent him forward a little, then without ceremony he planted two hard smacks across Sherlock’s bottom, one to each side. He suspected he probably got the cane stripe both times, because Sherlock jumped hard with each one and actually gave a startled little squeak with the second.

“Back in the corner and stand still,” John told him firmly. Sherlock quickly stepped forward again, and John returned to his seat on the bed, hoping that would be enough to keep Sherlock in line through the rest of his fifteen minutes.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t. Barely two minutes passed before Sherlock started shifting his feet again, keeping up the fidgeting until John got up and repeated the penalty from the first time. This time the two smacks earned him a wince and a gasp, and once Sherlock was back in the corner John warned him sternly that any more fidgeting would earn him extra corner time, as well as extra spanks. Sherlock froze like a statue on hearing that, and John retreated back a few paces to watch him, hoping that he’d made his point.

At first it seemed that he had, but as it turned out, the smacks and the warning only made Sherlock behave for the sum total of about a minute. And this time he didn’t just shuffle his feet a bit, he actually began rocking back and forth on his heels and toeing at the wall, making it obvious enough that John couldn’t possibly miss what he was doing. He seemed almost to be begging for a response, and if that was the case, then John wasn’t about to fail to give him one.

This time, once he’d had Sherlock step back from the corner, he aimed lower for the penalty spanks, smacking his hand down hard at the very top of each thigh. Sherlock jumped and gasped in obvious surprise at the first, then flinched at the second, raising one foot off the floor in automatic reaction.

“That’s an extra five minutes in the corner, which means you now have seven minutes to go,” John said, very sternly. “If your feet come off the floor again, if I so much as see you squirm, you’ll be doing another full fifteen minutes on top of that. Now back in the corner and _stand still_.” He punctuated the words with another smack full across Sherlock’s bottom, and Sherlock winced and quickly took up the required position again.

John thought that would surely be the end of it, because there was no way Sherlock would want an additional twenty minutes of corner time—he found fifteen minutes unpleasant enough as it was. But a few minutes later, much to John’s bewilderment, the whole performance started all over again. And while he duly handed out the extra smacks, and passed down the promised sentence of double corner time on top of that, he also found himself starting to wonder just what the hell Sherlock was doing.

It didn’t seem to make sense. Sherlock knew damn well how much trouble he was in, so why did he seem to be trying to do everything he could to earn himself extra punishment? John was sure it wasn’t because Sherlock was genuinely too uncomfortable to stay still; the bruises he’d picked up just weren’t that bad. Besides, if that had been the case he was pretty sure Sherlock would have said something, if only in the hopes of getting out of corner time. But instead he seemed almost to be actively angling for more of it.

The question was why, though. Sherlock had been positively meek on the way home, not daring to say a word after he’d realised just how angry John was. And he’d been horrified when John had gone to fetch the cane, and he’d found out that he’d be getting more than just a spanking this time. Those reactions hadn’t been feigned, John was sure of it. Honestly, he would have thought Sherlock would be doing everything he could to avoid extra punishment, not seemingly trying to invite it.

Invite it … or avoid it.

Oh, bloody hell.

John’s heart sank as the words seemed to turn over in his mind, and his train of thought abruptly led him to a possible explanation. Christ, was that the problem? Sherlock really had been distressed when John had gone for the cane; there’d been no mistaking the look of horrified dismay on his face, or the way he’d eyed the cane like someone might eye a gun being waved at them. Was he actually so nervous about being caned that he was actively trying to extend his corner time in order to avoid it for a little bit longer?

Oh, bloody hell, John thought again, and found himself suddenly having to work very hard indeed not to give in to a rush of sympathy. Really, when he thought about it, it made sense. The last time Sherlock got the cane must have been while he was still at school, and John had got a clear impression of just how miserable he’d been there. The associations wouldn’t be good. And while Sherlock might play at being cold, John knew very well that he was actually pretty damn sensitive in a lot of ways. It was entirely possible that he was anxious enough about being caned that he’d prefer to stave it off with more corner time, no matter how much he hated it.

It was probably a good thing that Sherlock couldn’t see him right then, since John suspected that his emotions were written all over his face despite his efforts to remain stern. He was strongly tempted to tell Sherlock right then and there that he’d changed his mind, and that he’d just spank him after all. That hairbrush was pretty damn effective, especially if he made it a good long session. And combined with the extra punishment that John had in mind, surely a spanking could still make the appropriate point …?

An image of Sherlock making his lunatic leap between buses swam back into his mind, and John clenched his fists and clamped down hard on his burgeoning sympathy. No, damn it. He could not let himself cave, no matter how much he might want to. Sherlock’s antics today had been near suicidal, and John needed to do more than just make the appropriate point about it—he needed to come down on Sherlock hard enough to make an absolutely indelible point. His instincts had told him, as soon as he’d calmed down enough to listen to them, that a spanking wasn’t going to do the job. And sympathy aside, that hadn’t changed.

The memories firmed his resolve. He might not be able to make Sherlock put the same importance on his safety that John did, but he could and would make it very clear that there would be consequences when Sherlock needlessly risked his life. And when Sherlock took it to mad extremes like he had today, then the consequences had to be equally severe. As unpleasant as it would be for both of them, this had to be a lesson that Sherlock wouldn’t forget—or delete—anytime soon.

He drew in a deep breath and then slowly let it out, deliberately focusing on putting his proper disciplinarian demeanour back into place, just as a hint of movement from the corner caught his eye. A swift glance told him that Sherlock was still standing obediently in place, but he was shifting very slightly where he stood, bouncing just a little on the balls of his feet, his shoulders tense and his fingers twisted tightly together behind him.

For a moment John thought it was just more of the same, and he opened his mouth to firmly scold Sherlock back into stillness, only to stop himself short before the words could actually come out. For some reason, this fidgeting seemed to have a subtly different quality to what Sherlock had been doing before, although John couldn’t quite say why he thought that. There was something … less deliberate and more uncomfortable about it, somehow. It was hard to define, but it did make him wonder just how much of his moment of indecision Sherlock had been able to pick up on, even without looking at him. Knowing Sherlock, John wouldn’t be at all surprised if he’d been able to deduce it by the pattern of John’s breathing, or the way he was shifting his feet, or God only knew what else. And if so, Sherlock apparently wasn’t too comfortable with what he’d deduced.

And that brought John to another important reason why he couldn’t cave on this, never mind needing to make an unforgettable point about Sherlock’s suicidal impulses. He’d already noticed that Sherlock seemed to become uneasy, even anxious, if John gave any indication of not following through on something he’d committed to. And the fact was, John had committed to using the cane this time, and while Sherlock had made an initial protest, he had ultimately obeyed. They had an agreement in place, however unspoken it might be. Sherlock might complain about being punished, but John knew he would also be expecting him to hold to that agreement.

All right, John told himself firmly. Enough second-guessing himself. He’d told Sherlock what he intended to do, and he would do it. He was being harsh, yes, but not unjust. The fact was Sherlock fully deserved the cane after his insane performance today, and they both knew it, and they’d both agreed to it. And no matter how sympathetic he might feel, no matter how much he might want to hug Sherlock and reassure him, it wasn’t the time for that. Right now Sherlock needed him to be the disciplinarian, and John was going to do what Sherlock needed, not what he himself wanted. And the best way for him to see Sherlock through this was by being firm, decisive and confident in what he was doing. Cuddling and reassurance could come later; for right now, Sherlock needed to learn a bloody good lesson about being so careless with his safety.

And for right this moment now, Sherlock had played up during corner time, which meant extra punishment. However, if John’s theory was right, then by giving Sherlock an extra fifteen minutes of corner time, John had actually given him exactly what he wanted. And that, John thought grimly, was a problem.

He knew he couldn’t let manipulation like that pass, not while Sherlock was being punished. Sherlock was relying on him to be the one in control here, and allowing himself to be played certainly wouldn’t be conducive to that. Not to mention, he also didn’t want to give Sherlock any encouragement to try to extend things even further; that would just get ridiculous very quickly. No, he needed to put a stop to this right now. And the best way he could see to do that was to make sure that Sherlock’s second round of corner time was unpleasant enough that he had no desire to earn himself a third.

John had to really steel himself for what he was going to do next, especially with his new suspicions about just how nervous Sherlock was about being caned. But it was the logical solution, and he refused to let himself waver. With the first twenty minutes now up, he moved back to stand at the foot of the bed, resolutely arranged his expression to be suitably authoritarian, and called Sherlock firmly out of the corner.

Sherlock turned where he stood, but came no closer, looking at John with wary confusion. “You said another fifteen minutes,” he said cautiously.

“Yes, I did,” John agreed, his tone even. “But we’re going to have an intermission first. Now come here.” He pointed a finger firmly at the floor, indicating the same spot at the end of his bed that he’d had Sherlock stand in before.

Sherlock looked decidedly anxious, but he did as he was told. Once he’d reluctantly obeyed, John crossed his arms over his chest and eyed him sternly.

“With all the fidgeting around you did, I don’t think you’ve had a chance to do much thinking,” he said. “I’m going to make sure your second round of corner time is better focused. Pyjama bottoms down, and bend over the bed. I think another stroke of the cane might help you to concentrate better.”

Sherlock’s eyes went huge with alarm, and then immediately turned pleading. “John, please, no,” he begged. “You don’t have to cane me again. I’ll … I’ll behave in the corner, I promise. I’ll keep still. I’ll think hard. I will!”

“You know very well that playing up during corner time earns you extra punishment,” John said, forcing himself to remain firm. “What that punishment is isn’t up to you. Pyjamas down and bend over the bed, Sherlock, right now, or it’ll be two strokes and not just one. Your choice.”

Sherlock’s heartbroken look could have melted stone, but John met it with his best Captain-Watson-giving-orders stare, perfectly stern and unyielding. Apparently realising that once again there would be no last minute reprieve, Sherlock turned forlornly around, pushed his pyjama bottoms down off his hips again and then slowly, and very reluctantly, bent over the bed.

John went back to his desk to retrieve the cane from the box, taking out the same one he’d used before. He couldn’t help grimacing to himself as he lifted it, knowing from his own demonstration with it that even this thin cane still really stung—and that a second stroke with it would sting even more than the first.

But then he reminded himself of exactly why Sherlock was being punished right now, and of just how easily today’s adventure could have ended in something a lot more painful and permanent than a caned bottom. The thought of that hardened his resolve again in an instant, and he crossed determinedly back to take up his position on Sherlock’s right.

As he rested the cane lightly across Sherlock’s upturned bottom, Sherlock went visibly tense all over and clenched his fists into the duvet again, ducking his head down as if to brace himself. Not wanting to drag it out, since Sherlock still had another round of corner time to get through, John tapped once in warning, then raised the cane and brought it down hard, making sure he got in the wrist flick at the end that Sherlock had taught him.

He highly doubted Sherlock now appreciated the results of those lessons, or the accuracy that he’d praised John for at the time. The cane landed with a whistling snap across both his cheeks, just below the pink stripe from the first stroke. Sherlock flinched hard as it connected, and a moment later he let out a strangled gasp and stamped a foot on the floor. Again, though, he stayed obediently bent over, waiting for John to give him permission to stand.

“All right, up you get,” John said, stepping back. Sherlock straightened up like a released spring, his hands shooting behind him to gingerly rub at the new stripe. John knew it must sting like hell, but he didn’t allow himself to become too sympathetic. Sherlock had earned every bit of this, no matter how much both of them might dislike it, and he had plenty more to come yet.

“You can pull your pyjamas up, then back in the corner for fifteen minutes,” John said firmly. “And I’m warning you now—any extra corner time you earn will come with another one of those.” Hopefully, he thought, that would put paid to any ideas Sherlock might have of extending his corner time still further.

Sherlock cast him a truly woebegone look at that, but he obediently pulled his pyjamas back up and padded forlornly back to the corner. This time he took up the expected position and dutifully stayed in it, nose to the wall and hands clasped in the small of his back, for the entire fifteen minutes. His feet didn’t so much as twitch off the floor, let alone shuffle. Apparently the threat of the cane along with more corner time had been quite enough to convince him to behave.

When the fifteen minutes were finally up, John got up from where he’d been sitting on the bed and moved to stand at the foot of it once again. He took one last moment to steel himself for what was coming next, then let out a slow and determined breath and turned a perfectly stern gaze on Sherlock’s back.

“All right, corner’s time’s over,” he said. “Come here.”

Sherlock slowly turned around, took in where John was standing and visibly winced. He obeyed with obvious reluctance, his expression more suited to a man walking to a firing squad.

John left him where he was, while he crossed back yet again to the box of canes to retrieve what he wanted. He’d already decided which cane he was going to use, of course; he’d been carefully planning this punishment all the way home. As much as he might dislike doing it, he was going to take out the nasty thick cane—the senior cane, Sherlock had called it, when they’d sorted through the things properly—and he was going to give Sherlock the bloody good hiding with it that he fully deserved. It was severe, yes. It was harsh and it would be hard on both of them. But Sherlock had earned it, had more than earned it with today’s near suicidal antics, and John was absolutely determined to teach him a lesson that he wouldn’t soon forget. And so, the senior cane it would be.

However, for all his firm intentions, when the moment came to actually reach for the cane in question, John found to his chagrin that his resolve quite failed him. He went to pick the thing up and abruptly realised that he just couldn’t bring himself to use it.

He knew logically that Sherlock deserved it. He even knew that Sherlock had been punished with a very similar cane when he was just a teenager, and it hadn’t done him any real harm. But it didn’t make any difference. No matter how badly Sherlock had misbehaved, this was still the very first time that John was going to cane him, and he just couldn’t bring himself to be quite that harsh. Not this very first time, at least.

For a moment he was frustrated with himself—so much for his careful planning and commitment—but he just as quickly squashed it. Sherlock was waiting for him, and this was no time for him to get indecisive and hesitant. He’d changed plans on the fly often enough as a doctor and as a soldier, so he could bloody well do it as a disciplinarian too.

All right then, he thought resolutely, pulling his firm intentions smartly back into place. Fine. He wasn’t comfortable with using the senior cane, not this time at least, so he’d just use the next one down instead. It was still a step up from the thin cane he’d used to give Sherlock his corner time strokes. And he remembered quite well from his own demonstration that the medium one still stung quite enough to make for a memorable lesson.

And from the look on Sherlock’s face when John turned around with the medium cane in hand, the one he’d chosen was quite severe enough. Sherlock’s eyes went huge when he saw it, although John thought there might have been the faintest hint of relief there too, as if he’d been expecting it to be worse. Even so, when he finally managed to drag his dismayed gaze away from the cane, it was only to give John an openly pleading look.

“John, please,” he said plaintively. “If you really have to cane me … can’t you just use the same one as before? It would still teach me a lesson, I promise it would.”

His face was full of such miserable appeal that confronted with it, John wanted very badly to hug him, and found he had to work rather hard indeed to be able to remain stern. He managed to do so by once again reminding himself of the epic list of misbehaviour Sherlock had indulged in today, as well as calling up the memories of just how afraid he’d been for Sherlock’s life, watching him roll around fighting a drugged up murderer on the roof of a moving bus in heavy traffic. Those things worked quite well indeed, and John’s firm expression didn’t waver as he met Sherlock’s beseeching eyes.

“What you get punished with isn’t up to you,” he said. “How severely you get punished isn’t up to you. We agreed that you trust me to make those decisions, and this is the decision I’ve made.” He pointed with the cane to a spot dead centre at the foot of the bed. “No more discussion, Sherlock. Take your pyjama bottoms down and bend over the bed. Right now, please.”

Even though Sherlock had already done this twice in just the last hour, it didn’t appear to be any easier for him this time than it had been either time before. He gave John a last, utterly crestfallen look before turning to face the bed, his head drooping as if he’d just been condemned. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his pyjamas almost in slow motion, and pushed them off his hips with a dejected little shrug of his shoulders. Then, with what seemed to be exquisite reluctance, he bent over the bed and rested his forearms on the mattress.

“Good,” John said. He stepped forward and pulled the hem of Sherlock’s long t-shirt up over his back, just to make sure it wouldn’t get in the way. Sherlock flinched a little at the contact, and after a moment he asked in a small voice, “Can I have a pillow?”

“Of course,” John said, moving to the head of the bed to get one for him. Sherlock had already developed a habit of hugging a pillow during a spanking, often desperately burying his face in it and letting it muffle any sounds he might make. John had done nothing to discourage this, feeling that if it gave Sherlock a bit of comfort, he could hug his pillow all he liked. And given how distressed he seemed to be about getting the cane this time, he’d no doubt need that comfort even more.

He put the pillow where Sherlock could reach it, and sure enough, Sherlock immediately pulled it close and pressed his face into it, so tightly that only the back of his curly head was visible. John moved back behind him, but before he took up his caning position he put a hand on the small of Sherlock’s back, giving him a pat and a quick rub of reassurance. He couldn’t give him a proper hug, not yet, but he wanted Sherlock to remember that he was cared for, that he was safe, even while he was being punished.

Sherlock quivered under his hand, and John decided that he’d better get on with it before Sherlock became completely overwrought without a single stroke falling. Steeling himself back into full disciplinarian mode, he stepped back, standing behind Sherlock and a little to his right, where he’d have space to aim and swing.

He raised the cane and pressed the slim shaft of it against Sherlock’s bottom, taking care to avoid the two vivid pink tramlines that were already present. The contact was gentle, but Sherlock still flinched as if John had smacked it down.

“Sherlock, do you understand why you’re being punished?” John asked. This was part of the ritual now, this question and answer session, to make sure that Sherlock understood exactly what it was he’d done wrong. John had quickly found that he needed to make it clear, or else it was too easy for Sherlock to get confused about just why he was being disciplined.

Sherlock nodded into the pillow, and John heard a muffled, “Yes.”

“All right,” he said. “I want you to tell me what you did wrong today. And take your face out of the pillow while you’re talking, please.”

John usually didn’t mind the muffled replies—he was getting pretty good at understanding Sherlock-through-a-pillow—but they had a lot of misdeeds to get through and he didn’t want to be asking for repetitions.

Sherlock sighed, but dutifully turned his face to the side so that he could speak more clearly. There was a moment of hesitation before he said, quietly, “I lied to you. About meeting Lestrade at the club. Both yesterday and this morning.”

John was very glad that Sherlock hadn’t attempted to repeat his ‘it wasn’t really a lie, there was a change of plans’ excuse, because quite frankly he’d have been very unhappy indeed to hear that one tried on again. And by including yesterday in his confession, Sherlock had also admitted that he’d been lying from the start, and that he had indeed been planning to leave Lestrade out the whole time. Points for honesty after the fact, at least, John thought grimly. He was still going to make sure Sherlock learned a damn good lesson about it, but at least he hadn’t had to drag the confession out of him bit by bit.

“Yes, you did,” he said. “I don’t like being deceived, and I’m not going to tolerate it, not when it concerns your safety. Putting yourself in danger by lying to me will get you punished.” He paused to let that sink in, then asked, “What else?”

“I chased the murderer without backup,” Sherlock said, sounding truly forlorn. “And I didn’t stop when you told me to.”

“Also true,” John said. His voice grew sterner as he went on, “You chased a violent murderer, without backup. He’s a big guy, he’s physically capable, he was panicking and he was on a cocaine high, which you called him on so you can hardly say you didn’t know he was on drugs. It was reckless, and it was extremely dangerous. As for not stopping when I told you to—you know very well that disobedience over safety issues also gets you punished, don’t you?”

Sherlock nodded, pressing his face back into the pillow. “Yes,” he said, voice muffled again.

“What else?” John asked. “And not to the pillow.”

Sherlock sighed, but turned his head again. He sounded a little more tentative this time as he said, “I jumped onto a bus …”

“Onto the roof of a moving bus. Off the roof of a building,” John said, his voice hard. “Also reckless, and also extremely dangerous. If you’d missed, you could have been killed. At the very least you could have been very seriously hurt. I don’t care how badly you wanted to chase him, I’m not going to have you taking chances like that with your life. We knew who he was; the police could have picked him up without you having to throw yourself off a building.”

John’s temper was starting to rise again at the mere thought of it, and he gritted his teeth, forcing himself to calm down. Once he was reasonably sure that he’d be able to keep his tone even, he asked, “What else?”

There was a pause, and then Sherlock said in a small voice, “I—jumped buses to catch him?”

Remembering that, John had to grit his teeth again for a moment before he could even start scolding. “Yes, you did,” he said, and despite his efforts he could hear the anger bleeding through into his voice. “You jumped from one moving bus to another on a crowded motorway, to confront a violent murderer on a drug high, who might or might not have been armed. You started a physical fight with him on the roof of a bus, where you could have very easily ended up falling off into traffic, that’s if he didn’t manage to stab you or God knows what else. And what’s more, you were on the phone with me right before you did it. You knew the police were coming. And I told you to _stay put!_ ”

Damn it, he thought, he’d bloody _known_ he was going to end up shouting when he scolded Sherlock about this.

He took a deep and deliberate breath, fighting against the urge to just lift the cane up right now and give Sherlock a good hard whack with it. He was _not_ going to lose his temper; he was going to do this properly. Even so, the memories of what had happened—and worse, the thoughts of what _could_ have happened—were enough that he couldn’t keep himself from giving Sherlock a sharp little flick with the cane, not a real stroke, but probably enough to sting a bit. Sherlock jumped, giving a startled little yip which he hastily stifled in the pillow.

“It was more than just dangerous,” John went on, when he thought he could speak without shouting. “It was completely insane. You were utterly reckless and you showed absolutely no regard for your safety or for your life. I won’t have it, Sherlock. I told you this the first time I spanked you—I care about your life. I don’t want to see it end. And I _will_ do whatever I can, whatever is necessary, to make sure you stay safe. Is that very clearly understood?”

Sherlock nodded vigorously into the pillow.

“Answer me!” John snapped, and Sherlock jerked his head out of the pillow as if someone had just yanked him up by the hair.

“Yes!” he said quickly. “Yes, John, I understand!”

“Good,” John said, moderating his tone a little, but still staying very stern. “And you’re going to understand even better after I’ve finished with you. I’m sorry that I have to do it, but you’ve more than earned the cane today.”

He was silent for a long moment, giving them both a chance to regain their composure, as well as letting everything he’d said sink in. Then, wanting to make sure his point was really made, he said, “All right. I’m going to ask again. Do you understand why you’re being punished?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, more quietly this time but just as earnestly. “I understand.”

“Tell me, then.”

Sherlock wasted no time in answering, the words almost tumbling over each other as he hurried to get them out. “I deceived you. I disobeyed you. I was reckless. I didn’t think about my safety. I didn’t think about your safety. I put my life in danger. And I—I caused a traffic jam on the motorway!”

The last one hadn’t really been on John’s list, but since Sherlock had brought it up, he’d take it. “Yes, you did,” he agreed. “And God only knows how long it took to get things rolling again. But it’s the other things I’m much more concerned about, Sherlock. Inconveniencing people on the motorway is nothing compared to recklessly risking your life. You didn’t even have a good reason to do it. We knew who the killer was. All we had to do was give his name to Lestrade and they’d have had him, even if it took them a bit longer to find him.”

He was still speaking sternly, but he hadn’t missed Sherlock’s addition that he also hadn’t thought about John’s safety any more than his own. It was true, but he did appreciate the fact that Sherlock was thinking of it now, and it had softened his tone just a little.

“As for deceiving me and disobeying me, we’ve already established that those are things you don’t do when it concerns issues of your health and safety. They will earn you punishment, each and every time. Understood?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, nodding hard enough to make his curls bounce.

“Good,” John said. “All right, then. I told you already that this punishment isn’t going to be a light one, but I’m going to lay this out now so that you know what to expect. The first part of your punishment is the cane, obviously. Once that’s over, you’re being sent to bed for the rest of the day. We’ll talk about the rules for that when we come to it. Tomorrow you’ll have some additional things to do to finish things off. You will not be officially off punishment until I say so, is that clear?”

Sherlock was silent for a moment, probably trying to take all of that in, but then he nodded hastily, following it up with an equally quick, “Yes.”

John didn’t believe for a moment that it was going to be that easy, especially when it came to Sherlock actually enduring what would be some very boring extra punishments. Sherlock just wasn’t in any position to protest right now, but when he didn’t have a cane hovering over his bottom, John had no doubt that the arguments would start.

Still, they could deal with that when they came to it. For right now, he’d just focus on getting them through the caning part.

“All right,” he said, giving Sherlock’s bottom a warning tap with the cane. “Here we go. Get ready, Sherlock.”

He saw Sherlock visibly tense, clutching the pillow more tightly and pressing his face into it hard. John tapped his bottom once more to make sure of his aim, gave himself another very quick mental run through of the technique, then raised the cane up and swished it down hard. He was satisfied that he’d aimed through, rather than at, his unhappy target, and he’d also got the flick of the wrist on the end, to make sure the stroke connected extra sharply. And his aim had been true—the cane had landed with a whistling crack right beneath the two pink tramlines that were already present. John had to admit, as much as he might not enjoy doing it, he seemed to be getting the hang of this caning thing quite nicely.

Somehow he doubted Sherlock would appreciate that, though. A shudder ran through him as the cane landed, and he let out a muffled, startled gasp. One foot twitched up off the floor and Sherlock stamped it twice before he managed to force himself still again. Even then John could still hear him breathing hard into the pillow, obviously trying to cope with the sting.

He knew Sherlock had more than earned this, but that didn’t mean he didn’t internally wince at what it must feel like. This might not be the senior cane, but even so, John remembered quite well from his demonstration caning that this one still wasn’t at all pleasant. He’d been genuinely startled by just how much it had stung, especially with cumulative strokes. Sherlock wouldn’t be nearly as surprised, after his frequent experiences with the cane at school, but that didn’t mean it would hurt him any less.

But if it would help to keep him safe, if it meant that Sherlock might pause even the slightest bit before flinging himself headlong into danger the next time, then it would be more than worth the hurt. John would much, much prefer to have Sherlock nursing a caned bottom than to have him really injured, or worse.

And he was going to make that very clear to Sherlock, right now. John couldn’t match smacks to scolding as he’d been making a habit of doing when he was spanking Sherlock, but he could do some scolding in between strokes, just to make sure the point was properly hammered home.

“You could easily have been killed today,” he said, as he lifted the cane again. “I know that what you do comes with risks, and I accept that sometimes you’ll be in dangerous situations. But I’m _not_ going to allow you to take completely unnecessary risks.”

He swished the cane down, aiming slightly lower than the last time so that the stroke landed just beneath the previous one. Sherlock flinched hard as it connected, gasping loudly into the pillow. This time he didn’t just stop with a couple of stamps but drummed one foot on the floor in what John was pretty sure was an involuntary reaction. He’d noticed already that no matter how much Sherlock tried to keep himself still during punishment, it always seemed to be his feet that he lost control of first. Coming from a man who spent much of his time running around like a mad thing, John supposed that almost made sense.

He raised the cane again, eyeing his target as he lined up for the next stroke. The first one was coming up in vivid colour now, the tramline welt looking quite a bit redder and angrier then the two pink stripes from Sherlock’s corner time punishment. The mark from the second stroke wasn’t far behind it. Remembering the burning he’d felt, and the cumulative effect of multiple cane strokes, John could only imagine how much those stripes must sting.

He refused to allow himself to be too sympathetic, though, reminding himself yet again of just why he was punishing Sherlock right now. With his resolve duly firmed, he returned to his scolding, hoping that the addition of the cane might help to drive the words into Sherlock’s mad genius head.

“You went completely off the deep end today,” he told Sherlock sternly. “And you need to understand that you won’t be allowed to get away with behaviour like that anymore. If you don’t have the sense in your head to keep yourself safe, Sherlock Holmes, then I will do it for you.”

The third stroke came down a little lower again, landing with a whipping snap just underneath the second. Sherlock jumped again, his head jerking up in shock for a moment before he hastily ducked his face back into the pillow. A moment later he was beating a frenetic little tattoo on the floor with his toes, his shoulders heaving as he let out a series of stuttering gasps.

John paused again, waiting for the frantic foot-drumming to finish. Apparently one foot was no longer enough, because this time Sherlock was alternating feet, stamping first one and then the other on the floor in quick, staccato bursts of motion. Despite all the movement of his feet, though, he remained obediently in position, bent over sharply at the hips and offering a perfect target for the cane. It seemed the training from his school canings was still with him, even all these years later.

But he was obviously feeling it badly; his increasingly distressed reactions were proof enough of that. And that was three strokes now, not counting the two corner time ones, and John knew he needed to think about where the finishing point would be.

He hadn’t announced a number in advance because he genuinely hadn’t been sure how many would be enough. He’d certainly been tossing around a count of six in his mind, because despite having no personal experience with caning until two weeks ago, he’d known well enough that ‘six of the best’ had been the standard. But since this was the first time he’d used the cane on Sherlock, he’d wanted to see how Sherlock reacted to it. Not that Sherlock’s reactions could necessarily be trusted, as John had found out the first time he’d spanked him, but they could at least give him some clues.

But there was no question that Sherlock was reacting this time, and reacting with greater distress with every stroke. He deserved a severe punishment, but John had no desire to go overboard. Not to mention, with the initial two corner time strokes, there was only so much unmarked target area left. John didn’t want to start crossing welts over welts; that could potentially break the skin and he had no intention of doing that.

There was room for another three strokes, though, which would make the traditional six, not counting the corner time ones. John had been managing nicely so far to get the stripes to fall neatly parallel, so there was no reason to think that his aim wouldn’t hold true for another three. They’d all have to be low, which John was sure Sherlock wouldn’t like at all, but then this was meant to be a severe punishment. Three more good stingers on the most sensitive part of his bottom would definitely make a very strong point.

He raised the cane high, taking careful aim. “You also need to understand that disobeying me and lying to me are not on, not when it concerns your safety,” he said. “Those things interfere with me keeping you safe, and they will get you punished, every single time.”

He followed that scolding up with another hard, whipping crack of the cane, which once again landed just below the previous one. Sherlock jerked as if he’d been shot and sucked in a hitching gasp, which trailed off into a barely stifled whine. He was drumming his feet again instantly, although his frantic tattoo was muffled now by his pyjama bottoms, which had become tangled up around his feet. He was clutching the pillow like a lifeline, clinging to it, crushing it tightly against his face. Once again John had no idea how he was breathing, but he wasn’t about to argue with Sherlock’s methods of comforting himself through a punishment. If it worked for him, then it did.

Sherlock seemed quite unable to keep his feet still now, too. Even once he’d stopped drumming the floor, he kept shifting his weight from foot to foot, alternately twitching them up and down. Both feet were hopelessly tangled in his pyjama bottoms, but he didn’t seem to notice. Not really surprising; John was quite sure his attention was all directed elsewhere right now.

Despite his determination that this punishment be severe, John had to struggle hard not to give in to a sharp stab of sympathy. Sherlock’s obvious distress—and the fact that he was so bravely staying in position in spite of it—made him long to just call the punishment finished and move on to some serious cuddle time. He knew he couldn’t do that, not yet—he’d decided on six and he _would_ see it through—but he could at least give Sherlock some reassurance that it was almost over.

“You’ve had four,” he said, trying to sound firm while still being encouraging. “Two more to go, and then we’re finished.”

He saw Sherlock visibly brace himself at that, hugging the pillow even tighter, if that was even possible. John steeled himself and raised the cane again, not wanting to drag this out any longer than necessary. He brought it down hard and fast and low, wincing inwardly at the thought of how much it would hurt on that sensitive skin.

Sherlock’s reaction to it only made him wince even more. His whole body seemed to jolt as the cane connected, and he didn’t just whine this time but actually yelped out loud, and even muffled as it was, it was clearly heartfelt. He didn’t just drum his feet on the floor, either, but began to kick at it frantically, bouncing from foot to foot until he’d kicked his tangled pyjama bottoms right off. He was panting into the pillow as if he’d just run a marathon, and John could see his shoulders shaking. Despite all that, though, Sherlock remained bent over, his bottom dutifully offered for another stroke.

Another stroke which John was suddenly seriously unsure he’d be able to actually deliver. He’d sworn to himself just a moment ago that he would give Sherlock the six he’d decided on, but bloody _hell_ , this was hard.

For a moment he was desperately tempted to just stop it there, but by dint of sheer willpower he managed to clamp down on the urge. He wasn’t being cruel, he reminded himself firmly. He wasn’t being brutal, and he wasn’t being unjust. Yes, Sherlock was very unhappy about this punishment, but he was supposed to be unhappy about it. That was the whole bloody point, to make the punishment unpleasant enough that Sherlock might just possibly remember it and think twice before he threw himself headlong into mortal peril.

The sobering reminder of what exactly Sherlock had done to earn this punishment worked once again to steady him, and John blew out a grimly determined breath and gritted his teeth. Just one more stroke, then, and they’d be finished. They could both handle one more.

His eyes went back to Sherlock, who despite his gulping and trembling was still obediently bent over and waiting. John wanted very badly to hug him, and was beyond grateful that he’d be able to do exactly that in just a few moments more.

“You’re being so brave,” he said, his tone softening despite his stern intentions. “Last one now. Deep breath.”

He heard Sherlock obey, sucking in a hitching gulp of air and appearing to brace himself all over. John aimed carefully, not wanting to risk accidentally crossing any strokes at the last minute, then brought the cane down one final time. As he’d intended, it was the lowest one yet, cracking home right across the spot where Sherlock’s weight would go when he sat. Not that he’d probably be doing that for a while, John thought with a wince of sympathy.

As the cane landed, Sherlock’s head jerked up again, before being just as swiftly stuffed back into his pillow. This time he did more than just yelp—his cry into the pillow was almost a smothered wail, and there was no mistaking the very real distress in it. He stamped the floor hard, kicked at it desperately, and then, as if he had simply reached the end of his endurance, his gasps into the pillow turned suddenly wet and convulsive and his shoulders began to heave. Muffled sobs came from the depths of the pillow, and John’s heart turned over as the sympathy he’d been so resolutely forcing down came instantly crashing to the fore.

He stepped forward immediately, dropping the cane onto the bed and getting as close to Sherlock as he could, their bodies touching at angles as John put a hand on the small of Sherlock’s back and began to gently rub. He put the other hand on Sherlock’s shaking shoulders and began to rub there, too, trying to soothe him through the worst of the pain, comforting words coming automatically to his lips.

“All right, shhh, it’s all over,” he murmured. His voice was low and soft and pitched to soothe, all traces of sternness gone. “All over now. You were so brave. Well done. I know that was awful but it’s all done now. Shhh, you’re all right. I’m right here, Sherlock. You cry as much as you need to. I’ve got you.”

He had no idea whether Sherlock could even hear him; the pillow-smothered sobs continued unabated and poor Sherlock seemed completely overwrought. But even if he couldn’t take in the words right now, John’s touch and his tone would still offer some comfort, or at least John certainly hoped so.

It really wasn’t the ideal position for comforting, though. John could rub Sherlock’s back like this, but he couldn’t give him a proper cuddle, which was what Sherlock seemed to desperately need right now. And Sherlock was showing no signs that he intended to try to move; his head was bowed down onto the bed and he was clutching his pillow like a lifeline, weeping into it in such a heartbroken fashion that John was starting to get more than a little concerned.

Sherlock’s spankings had usually ended with him tearful and sniffling, but so far he had tended much more towards quiet tears than open sobbing like this. Of course, the cane had been a considerably more severe punishment than any of the others he’d had so far, so it made sense that Sherlock would be that much more upset by it. Even so, the intensity of his obvious distress had John badly wanting to get him lying down where he could be properly cuddled and reassured.

The trick, though, would be how to get him there. John had the feeling that Sherlock was far too distraught right now to be capable of much coordination. Still, that didn’t mean John couldn’t manoeuvre him a bit. If Sherlock was wobbly on his feet—which he no doubt would be—then John was quite capable of supporting his weight long enough to get him safely on the bed.

“Sherlock,” he said, rubbing Sherlock’s back a bit more vigorously to get his attention. “I need you to stand up, just a bit. I want to get you lying down so that I can give you a proper cuddle. Just push yourself up a bit, and I’ll get the rest. Come on, just stand up a bit for me.”

He had to repeat himself a few times, which he did patiently, rubbing Sherlock’s back all the while. Finally the words seemed to penetrate Sherlock’s misery, and he shakily pushed himself up with one hand, still holding the pillow to his face with the other.

John caught him around the waist, got him as steady as he could on his feet and began gently guiding him around so that he could get him onto the bed. Sherlock was shaky on his feet and trembling hard, and the fact that he refused to take his face out of the pillow didn’t help his coordination any. Luckily all John had to do was get him around the edge of the footboard and nudge him forward onto the bed. He kept a supportive hand on him as Sherlock crawled gingerly up onto the mattress, and once Sherlock had got himself lying down, John quickly slid onto the bed beside him.

Sherlock was still weeping into the pillow, and seemed to have no intention of emerging from it. It was rather getting in the way of John being able to hug him properly, though, so John began to tug at it gently, trying to encourage Sherlock to let go of it.

“Come on, Sherlock, come out of there,” he said, keeping his voice low and reassuring. “It’s cuddle time now, and I’m much better than a pillow. Come on, let it go.”

After a moment or two, Sherlock did, although as soon as John pulled the pillow away he buried his head in his arms instead, keeping his face firmly hidden. There was a sense of shame there now along with his obvious distress, and John made a mental note to carefully reassure him—both now and later—that he shouldn’t feel at all ashamed of bursting into tears. Frankly, if John had been caned like that, he rather thought he’d have done exactly the same.

As soon as the pillow was out of the way, John tugged on Sherlock’s shoulder instead, urging him into a hug. “Come here, you,” he murmured. “Cuddle time.”

He’d got into a semi-habit of saying that, an echo of what he’d said the very first time, as gentle encouragement for Sherlock to do what he had done then and accept the comfort. Luckily that never seemed to be a problem; Sherlock might make fun of the name John had chosen but he hadn’t refused a cuddle yet. Or hadn’t tried to refuse it, at least; John wouldn’t have let him get away with actually doing so. If he was going to punish Sherlock, then he was going to cuddle him afterwards, period.

It seemed that soft encouragement was all Sherlock needed this time, too, because he scooted over beside John without hesitation, pressing himself close and burying his face in John’s shoulder. Unbidden, one arm came around John’s waist and grabbed a handful of his shirt, holding on tightly.

The clinging said a lot in itself about just how upset Sherlock was, and John responded by wrapping his arms tightly around him, rubbing his trembling shoulders with one hand while the other carded through his now wildly tousled hair.

“It’s okay,” he soothed. “It’s all over now. I know it was awful but you did really well. You just hold onto me, and you cry as much as you need to. I’m right here and I’m not going anywhere. You just take as long as you need. I’ve got you.”

In answer, Sherlock only pressed himself even closer, his breath still hitching on sobs that were now being muffled by John’s shoulder. He sounded so miserable that John’s conscience was telling him he ought to feel very guilty indeed for being so harsh with him. Fortunately, the more logical part of John also remembered very well just what Sherlock had done to earn this punishment, as well as the importance of trying to convince him not to do it again. And that part was telling him, rather more loudly, that while sympathy for Sherlock’s distress was fine, guilt was unnecessary and unproductive.

But sympathy he could do. And comforting. Lots of comforting, because Sherlock sounded so utterly forlorn that John was starting to feel a bit like he might cry right along with him.

Sherlock needed reassurance a lot more than he needed John crying in commiseration, though. Determined to hand out comfort with the same diligence that he had handed out discipline, John kept rubbing his back, letting his hand move soothingly back and forth, trying to gently rub some of the tension out of quivering muscles. His other hand stayed on Sherlock’s head, his fingers twining into the messy curls. And all the while he kept up the soft words of comfort, telling him, “Shhh,” and “There, there,” and that he had been brave and it was all over and he should cry as much as he needed to.

“Take your time,” he said, when Sherlock began to shudder and hiccup in an attempt to control his breathing. “We’re not in a rush. You take as long as you need. I’m not going anywhere, Sherlock, do you hear me? I’m right here. I’m staying right here. You just cry it all out.”

The encouragement seemed to work, since Sherlock stopped trying to stifle his sobs after that, but the intermittent shudders continued to hit him. Once he tensed hard and gave a low whine of discomfort, and John realised that the shudders were probably a reaction to the undoubted throbbing in his bottom. He couldn’t help wincing in sympathy at the thought. Those stripes had looked awfully sore, and John could remember quite well how long his own welts had continued to smart after his demonstration caning. Poor Sherlock’s bottom must be stinging almost unbearably.

“I know it still hurts,” he soothed, letting his hand move lower so that he was rubbing the small of Sherlock’s back. “I know. But you’re being really brave. You just hold on to me, all right? Hold on tight when it really hurts. It’ll help.”

He wasn’t actually sure if Sherlock would take him up on that or not, but he soon got his answer. The next time Sherlock suddenly went tense he promptly pressed himself more tightly against John, and clenched his fist hard around the fold of John’s shirt he was holding. Grateful that Sherlock was so willing to look to him for comfort, John rubbed the small of his back in soothing circles, trying to ease him through the pain.

“Good, that’s good,” he murmured. “Hold on to me. As tight as you like. I’m much better than a pillow because I hold on back, see?”

He tightened his arms around Sherlock, and was rewarded by Sherlock trying to snuggle even closer to him, if that was actually possible. Given how close they were already, John wasn’t sure that it was.

He still had moments when it completely amazed him that Sherlock Holmes—Mr Cold and Superior himself—actually allowed John to cuddle him like this. He sometimes thought it was almost more surprising than Sherlock allowing John to discipline him, that he would let himself be held and comforted and taken care of afterwards.

And yet at the same time, it really wasn’t surprising, not once John had got an idea of just how much Sherlock wanted to be close to someone. John had known it on some level since that first spanking, when Sherlock had leaned into his touch in that uncertain yet somehow hungry way. And he’d known it even better after their first cuddle time, when he’d woken up to find that a sleeping Sherlock had snuggled so close to him that he was practically wrapped around him.

Those weren’t the actions of a man who truly disliked all physical contact. Sherlock might play at being Mr Cold and Superior, all arrogance and icy dignity, but John had seen him without that hard exterior now, and he knew what lay beneath it. The fact was that Sherlock hadn’t just been tolerating John’s touch, he’d wanted it, and he’d wanted more of it. Maybe Sherlock really didn’t like being touched by anyone else (except Mrs Hudson for a motherly hug here and there) but he liked it when John touched him. He would let John close when no one else would be allowed near. John was deeply touched by the level of trust that showed, and he fully intended to live up to it as best he could.

Sherlock tensed again and clutched his handful of shirt more tightly, making another pained little sound into John’s shoulder. John rubbed his back a bit more firmly in response, trying to give him something else to focus on. “I know,” he soothed. “I know it’s sore. You’re okay, though. You just keep holding on to me. I’ll be right here until you’re ready to let go.”

He thought that might not be any time soon, judging by the way Sherlock was clinging to him, but that was fine by him. He’d do this for as long as Sherlock needed it.

He kept it all up, rubbing Sherlock’s back and stroking his hair, all the while speaking to him softly and soothingly, kind words of comfort and reassurance. As the minutes passed, Sherlock’s desolate sobbing slowly began to abate, turning more into hiccupping breaths and sniffling than real crying. He continued to tremble, though, and those pained little shudders still made him wince and hold on tighter to John. Even when his tears had subsided into only the occasional hitch, he continued to quiver and cling, leaving John in no doubt that he was still seriously upset.

He was also still bare below the waist, and John was starting to become a bit concerned about him getting cold, especially after exhausting himself with crying like that. He wasn’t sure if Sherlock would want his pyjama bottoms back on yet, but at the very least John could get a cover over him.

“Sherlock,” he said gently. “I need to get up for just a minute, okay? I’m just going to get us a blanket. I don’t want you to get cold.”

Sherlock shook his head against John’s shoulder, and mumbled something very softly that John thought sounded like, “I’m not cold.”

“Maybe not yet, but you’re tired and I didn’t think you’d want your pyjamas back on just yet,” John said. “You’ll start getting cold soon if we don’t get you covered up. I’ll be just a minute, I promise. I’ve got a spare blanket in the wardrobe.”

Sherlock seemed reluctant, but he slowly released his hold on John’s shirt, shifting up a little so that John could extract himself. John quickly slid off the bed and went to grab the blanket out of the wardrobe, shaking it out as he crossed back to the bed. Very gently, he draped it over Sherlock’s prone form, wincing to himself at the sight of the vivid stripes that decorated his bottom. He knew logically that Sherlock had deserved every bit of it, but still, those had to seriously sting.

Not wanting to leave Sherlock uncomforted for too long, John climbed back onto the bed as soon as the blanket was in place and slipped under it to take up his previous position. “Come on, back you come,” he said, encouraging Sherlock back into an embrace.

Sherlock allowed himself to be tugged, settling himself against John’s shoulder again and turning his face firmly back into it. He didn’t replace the arm around John’s waist, though, so John did it for him, taking his hand and gently pulling it across his body. Sherlock made no comment, but after a moment or two his fingers wrapped themselves back around a fold of John’s shirt.

“There you go,” John said. “That’s a bit better, isn’t it?” He began rubbing Sherlock’s back again, frowning to himself as he felt how badly Sherlock was still trembling. “It’s all right,” he soothed. “Just try to relax now. I’ll be right here for as long as you need me. You can sleep for a bit if you want to. I’ll stay with you.”

A nap might do him the world of good, John thought. Sherlock would be going to bed for the rest of the day anyway once he’d recovered enough for it, but he was in no state to go downstairs yet, so that would have to wait. Fortunately they had another perfectly good bed up here for him to nap on.

But Sherlock shook his head against John’s shoulder. “I can’t,” he said, his voice muffled and thick from crying. After a moment he added even more quietly, “It hurts too much.”

John made a sympathetic noise, bringing his other hand up to card gently through Sherlock’s curls. “I know,” he said. “It must be really sore. It’ll get better, though. And I’ll put some cream on you later, to help take the sting out.”

In lieu of having any cream to soothe Sherlock with right then, he hugged him a bit tighter instead. “You were very brave,” he said again. “I’m proud of you for taking that so well. I know it can’t have been easy.”

Sherlock shook his head again, giving a disbelieving little sniff. “You call that brave?” he mumbled, and John felt him press his head down a little more firmly, as if trying to hide his face even more than he already was. It wasn’t hard to guess at the cause. Sherlock had broken down entirely at the end, all dignity lost, and now that he’d recovered enough to realise it, the embarrassment was setting in.

Fortunately, John had already anticipated this reaction, and he had no intention of letting Sherlock go on feeling ashamed of himself.

“Yes, I do, actually,” he said. “You stood there and took it. I know it must have hurt like hell, but you stayed as still as you could for it and you never once asked me to stop. You trusted me to discipline you and you accepted my decision on it. I do call that brave.”

Sherlock was silent for a moment, as if taking that in. Then, rather to John’s surprise, he lifted his head and gingerly propped himself up enough so that their eyes could meet. Unsurprisingly, he looked a mess, his eyes red and puffy under wildly tousled hair, his face pale apart from the shamed spots of colour burning in his cheeks.

“And crying on your shoulder afterwards?” he asked. His voice was raspy and thick with tears, and John could feel the way he was shaking still, but he deliberately held John’s gaze, his eyes bright and hard and defensive. “Like a little kid? Do you call that brave?”

John held his gaze right back. “You’re supposed to cry on my shoulder afterwards,” he said firmly. “That’s the whole point of cuddle time. If I’m going to punish you, then I want to be able to comfort you when it’s over. I’m not interested in punishing you and then just walking away. Why do you think I insisted that this was part of the deal? I don’t think I could do it otherwise. You know I don’t like hurting you.”

Sherlock’s eyes seemed to soften a bit, and he nodded. “I do know that.”

“Well, then,” John said, as if that should settle it. “You haven’t seemed to mind cuddle time before. And I don’t believe for a moment that you’d rather I did just wallop you and then leave you to it.”

Sherlock lowered his eyes then, and shook his head briefly. “No,” he admitted softly.

“I should bloody hope not,” John told him earnestly. “Sherlock, I’m honoured that you trust me to do this for you. Don’t think I take it lightly. And if you’re asking if I think less of you somehow because you broke down, then the answer is no, and I shouldn’t even need to tell you that. Christ, you demonstrated the cane on me a couple of weeks ago, remember? I remember what it felt like. If I’d been caned like that, I’d have bloody well cried too.”

Sherlock gave a reluctant little huff of laughter at that. “I seem to recall you took it much better than I did.”

“I didn’t get nearly as many as you did,” John said wryly. “And I didn’t bloody want any more, believe me.”

He felt Sherlock shift uncomfortably against him, his eyes still cast down. “I’ve had it worse than that before.”

“Yeah, and how long ago was that?” John said. “When you were at school. That doesn’t mean it hurt any less this time.”

As if John’s words had conjured it, Sherlock tensed abruptly, putting his head down and giving a soft grunt of discomfort. John’s hand went automatically back to his head, stroking through the messy curls, and after a moment Sherlock looked up again. The defensiveness was still in his face, but now there was something else there with it, something small and sad and very lost looking.

He took a deep breath, as if he was deliberating, then he said very quietly, “It really hurt.” A pause, then he added, “It always did.”

John’s heart twisted as he took in Sherlock’s expression, and he let his hand slowly slide down so that he was cupping Sherlock’s cheek, keeping their eyes locked together. “I know,” he said gently. “I’m not sorry I did it, because I’m trying to keep you safe, and that’s more important. But I know it really, really hurt. And that’s why you let me comfort you until it stops hurting so much, yeah?”

Sherlock held his gaze for a long moment more, seeming to search his face. His eyes were intent and penetrating despite his unhappy state, and John found himself nearly holding his breath as he watched. It was almost spellbinding, Sherlock’s eyes and Sherlock’s brilliance all focused on him, not trying to stare him down but to read him, as if all of John’s thoughts and intentions were written on his face. For Sherlock, John thought it was entirely possible that they were.

And then Sherlock nodded, letting out a long, shaky breath and closing his eyes. After a moment he let himself relax back down, his head coming to rest on John’s shoulder again, although this time without his face buried in it. As John put his arms around him, he pressed himself closer into the embrace. “Could you do that for a bit longer?” he asked softly.

“Comfort you? Of course,” John said, having already settled in to do just that.

“No—I mean yes, but …” Sherlock hesitated, then seemed to steel himself. “The hair thing.”

John smiled and returned his hand to its place on Sherlock’s head, letting his fingers card through the mop of curls. “Better?”

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed with a sigh, nuzzling into his shoulder. “Thank you.”

“Anytime,” John said fondly. He began rubbing Sherlock’s back again as well, letting his hand move slowly back and forth. Sherlock was still trembling a little even now, but John thought it was finally starting to subside. Even so, he was glad he’d got up for the blanket. The shivering was from distress and overly tensed muscles rather than cold, but Sherlock was going to be worn out from being so distraught, not to mention from his adventure this morning, and with half his pyjamas missing he would have started to get chilled pretty quickly without something to cover him up.

“Just try to relax now,” he encouraged. “We’re not in a hurry. I’ll stay with you for as long as you want me to. As much cuddle time as you like.”

In response, Sherlock snuggled a little closer to him, letting out a soft sigh. After a few moments of quiet he said, rather diffidently, “You’re good at this.”

John grinned. “Glad to hear it. I’m doing my best.” He really was, too. He was learning as he went, still figuring out what worked best for Sherlock, but he was trying to make sure he did the best job of comforting that he could.

“I … appreciate it,” Sherlock said, sounding a little awkward now. He hesitated, then added more quietly, “This is—well. It’s much nicer than the last time I got the cane.”

John found himself automatically cuddling Sherlock a bit closer. “At school?” he asked, mostly rhetorically.

Sherlock nodded. “My final year. Not the very last term, though. They’d given up by then.”

“Just the second last term, then?” John’s tone was teasing, but only very gently.

Another nod against his shoulder. “There certainly wasn’t anyone telling me I was brave and giving me a hug afterwards,” Sherlock said. His tone was rueful, but there was an undertone to it that struck John as just sounding sad.

“Not even at home?” he asked, although he could guess at what the answer would be. He’d got the impression already that Sherlock’s home life had been just as lonely as his school life.

“My mother was just upset that I was still getting in trouble so near the end of school,” Sherlock said. “Mycroft rang to tell me off, I hung up on him. Then he came over to tell me off and I made myself scarce until he’d gone. Pretty standard, really,” he added, making a not entirely successful attempt at a disdainful tone.

John was silent for a few moments, although his hands stayed busy, one still rubbing Sherlock’s back while the other carded through his hair. “Did the memories make it worse?” he asked finally, carefully. “You were … pretty upset when you realised I was going to cane you. Did it … you know, bring some things back?”

He felt Sherlock tense and go still against him. There was a long silence, and John began to wonder if perhaps he shouldn’t have said anything, or at least not when Sherlock had so recently been so distressed. He was supposed to be calming him down, not getting him more upset.

But then Sherlock drew in a sharp breath and said shortly, “Probably.”

There was a pause, but just before John was about to reply, Sherlock shook his head with a sigh and went on, sounding suddenly chagrined. “No, not probably. It did. That’s why I …” His voice trailed off, and he turned his face partway into John’s shoulder. “In the corner,” he said, the words coming with obvious difficulty. “That was why I … I just wanted to buy some time. Even just a bit.”

John nodded slowly, not surprised by the answer, although he was surprised that Sherlock had confessed it so easily. “I thought that might be it,” he said quietly. “I’m glad you felt you could tell me, though.”

He hesitated for a moment, thinking hard. What he was going to ask next could be an even more sensitive issue, but it had to be asked. John had made it clear that he’d be making the discipline decisions, but he’d also left room for negotiations if Sherlock was truly, seriously unhappy about something. They’d already gone through this once about the cane, and Sherlock’s initial refusal hadn’t been a serious one, but that had been before John had used it on him. Under the circumstances, John felt that he really did need to check again.

He kept his voice gentle, trying to choose his words carefully. “Sherlock … look, I need to ask. Is it going to be too much, me using the cane? You know I won’t unless you really earn it, and I’m glad to have them as an option for really serious misbehaviour, but if it’s going to be unbearable, we can talk about alternatives. I don’t like to think it’s going to be bringing back a host of bad memories for you every time.”

Sherlock was silent for a while, and John didn’t rush him, wanting to give him the time to think about it. Finally, though, Sherlock shook his head, a single slow back and forth.

“No,” he said quietly. “No, it’s not going to be unbearable. I might have thought so, before you … before it happened. But with … this, afterwards … it’s different. You didn’t … you didn’t damage me or anything, John.” His tone became brisker on that last, as if he was consciously banishing the hesitation from his voice. “And they weren’t brutal with me at school, either; it was just unpleasant. I’m not that bloody fragile.”

“No one said you were,” John said affectionately, although privately he thought Sherlock might well be carrying a bit of damage from his school days, even if he didn’t want to admit it. Not from the canings specifically so much, but from all of it. He made no comment on that, though, not wanting to get Sherlock’s back up when he was supposed to be calming down.

“All right, then,” he said. “I’m glad to hear that—both that I didn’t damage you and that it’s different with me. I should hope it is.” He smiled slightly, giving Sherlock’s hair a little ruffle. “And you do realise that you just gave up the chance of potentially taking the cane off the discipline table, don’t you?”

Sherlock made a disgusted sound. “I don’t suppose I could have a redo?” he asked half-heartedly.

“Nope, afraid not,” John said. “But I can promise you I won’t be using the cane unless you really earn it. And I can also promise that you’ll always get cuddle time afterwards, no exceptions. Good enough?”

“I suppose it’ll have to be,” Sherlock said ruefully. He breathed in suddenly and buried a yawn in John’s shoulder. “Sorry,” he mumbled, sounding like he was trying to stifle another one.

“Don’t be sorry. You’re tired. I’m not surprised after the day you’ve had.” John glanced automatically at his bedside clock as he spoke and blinked in vague disbelief. God, how the hell was it only three in the afternoon?

“We’ll go downstairs when you’re ready, and get you settled in your bed,” he went on, once he’d got over being amazed at how early it still was. “But there’s no hurry. If you want to take a nap up here, that’s fine. As much cuddle time as you like, remember? I’ll stay with you.”

“I don’t feel like going downstairs yet,” Sherlock said, with a weary air that suggested the very thought was tiring him out. “It’s too far.”

“That’s fine,” John assured him again. “Sleep for a bit here, then. Do you think you could sleep now?” From his own limited experience, he knew that even if the initial sting was starting to wear off, Sherlock must still be awfully sore.

“Maybe,” Sherlock said, after a moment of consideration. “It still hurts, but I’m awfully tired.”

And he must really be completely exhausted if he was being that bluntly honest about it, John thought. He patted Sherlock’s back fondly. “Go on and go to sleep, then. It’ll do you good.”

Sherlock made an affirmative noise, then hesitated. “You don’t mind staying?”

“Nope,” John said. “Not at all. I wouldn’t mind a nap either.” He gave a low chuckle. “I had a hell of a morning.”

His tone was wry, but Sherlock gingerly lifted his head again, looking at him warily from underneath his eyelashes. “I am sorry,” he said in a rush, then added uncertainly, “Did I say that?”

“You did now,” John told him kindly. “And apology accepted.” He moved his hand to cup Sherlock’s head, pressing it gently back down onto his shoulder. “Go to sleep, Sherlock. Naptime. I’ll be right here.”

Sherlock allowed himself to be guided back into his favoured position, but he huffed at John’s words. “Naptime is as bad as cuddle time.” He stifled another yawn into John’s shoulder, adding, “And cuddle time is still a stupid name.”

“Tough,” John said mildly. “You’re stuck with it. And it’s time for both right now. Go to sleep.”

“All right,” Sherlock agreed. He was sounding genuinely sleepy now, as if he had simply reached the end of his endurance. John didn’t blame him at all. He had to admit, he was feeling pretty wiped out himself.

He was still stroking Sherlock’s hair, his fingers weaving through the messy curls, his mind drifting idly back through the conversation they’d just had. A sudden thought occurred to him, and despite having just hushed Sherlock, he abruptly felt like it ought to be said. “Sherlock?”

For a moment Sherlock didn’t reply, and John wondered if he’d already fallen asleep. But then he shifted slightly, and responded with a sleepy, “Hmm?”

“If I’d been there,” John said quietly. “When you were at school, after that, whenever—I’d have looked after you.” He gripped a handful of Sherlock’s curls for emphasis, giving them a gentle squeeze before letting go. “If I’d been there, I would have. You know that, don’t you?”

It had come out a bit more intensely than he’d been intending it to, but maybe that was all right. Sherlock was silent for a moment, and then he replied just as quietly, “I know.”

“I mean it,” John told him.

“I know.”

“And even though I wasn’t there then, I’ll look after you now. All right?”

“All right,” Sherlock agreed, the words catching on another half-stifled yawn.

“Good.” John smiled to himself, feeling better for having got that out there, for having made his intentions plain. “Now be quiet and go to sleep.”

Sherlock huffed again, probably at the injustice of being hushed when it wasn’t him who’d restarted the conversation, but he didn’t protest. He turned his face into John’s shoulder, and within moments his breathing had begun to slow and deepen. John felt the shift as Sherlock’s body went limp and heavy beside him, muscles relaxing as sleep claimed him.

“I’ll look after you now,” he repeated to himself softly, like a little vow.

He bloody well meant it, too.

 


	3. Bedtime

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is, as promised, safely cane-free. However, it is not spanking-free, because Sherlock does not like being sent to bed and can’t seem to stay out of trouble. This one’s also quite long. I’d have posted it as two chapters but I couldn’t seem to find a good place to break it, so it’s staying as one.
> 
> The references to Sherlock’s time in rehab are based on a story that a dear friend of mine is writing, which she generously allowed me to borrow plot ideas from for this part. We could both imagine poor Sherlock wistfully wishing that John had been there during that time.

 

After the total chaos of the morning, not to mention the extreme unpleasantness of having to cane Sherlock for it, John had been tired enough that he didn’t wake from his nap until he felt the warm body lying next to him start to stir. And even that might not have been enough to disturb him, if it hadn’t been that the warm body next to him had snuggled as close to him as it could get and so was much more noticeable when it moved.

John opened his eyes, made a valiant attempt to blink the fuzz out of his brain, and propped himself up on one elbow. Sherlock, he saw, was doing the same beside him, only he was still lying on his front. His hair was tousled into a wild mess, and the bruise on his cheekbone had darkened still further while he’d been asleep, forming a dark smudge below his eye.

John reached out to gently brush underneath it with his free hand. “Better get some arnica on that, I think,” he said, his voice husky from sleep. “And some ice. Is it sore?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Not much,” he said. He sounded scratchy too, and he hastily cleared his throat.

“I’ll do the lot when we get you settled downstairs,” John told him. “How’s the rest of you feeling?”

Sherlock shifted a bit and grimaced. “Sore,” he said wryly.

“I can imagine,” John said, patting his shoulder in sympathy. “The cream will help take some of the sting out. What do you think? Are you all right to go downstairs now?” John’s first aid supplies were actually up here, but he wanted to get Sherlock settled in his own bed before he started treating the various sore spots.

“I think so,” Sherlock said. He shifted again, and a faint flush came over his face. “I’m not sure where my pyjama bottoms are, though.”

“I’ll find them,” John assured him. He slid out from underneath the blanket and swung his legs off the edge of the bed, blinking a couple more times before getting to his feet. That was the problem with afternoon naps; they could be good for catching up on sleep, but they made him muzzy afterwards.

He found Sherlock’s pyjama bottoms at the end of the bed, where he’d kicked them off during his punishment. They were tangled up and half inside out, and John picked them up and shook them out straight before handing them over to Sherlock.

Sherlock took them, then looked at them and then down at himself a little uncertainly, as if he was trying to work out what to do next. After a moment he began to squirm himself awkwardly backwards off the side of the bed, taking the blanket with him, obviously trying to get to his feet without having to roll over and put any weight on his bottom. Considering how sore he must be, John didn’t blame him one bit.

He moved up beside Sherlock to steady him, taking him by the arm as Sherlock got his feet on the floor, and gently helping him to straighten up. Sherlock winced and gave a hiss of pain as he drew upright, and one hand went back automatically to rub his bottom. It didn’t seem to help much, though, since he grimaced and hastily stopped again.

“It’s too sore to rub,” he said dolefully.

John could well imagine that it was, after a caning like that. “The cream will help,” he said. “It won’t take all the sting out but it’ll take the edge off it. Come on, get your pyjamas on and we can get you downstairs. Or just wrap the blanket around yourself if you’d rather.” It wasn’t like it was a long trip, after all, and John wouldn’t blame Sherlock for not wanting to wear anything on his lower half right now, especially when he’d only have to take it off again once they got downstairs.

Apparently Sherlock’s dignity wouldn’t tolerate such a thing, however. He shook his head, his cheeks flushing again. “I can get dressed,” he said, although John didn’t miss the unhappy look he gave his pyjama bottoms.

“Okay,” he agreed, and stepped back, watching Sherlock carefully for a moment to make sure he was steady on his feet. When he didn’t seem inclined to wobble, John turned away to give him a bit of privacy, and busied himself instead with retrieving the cane from where it was still lying on the edge of the bed. He returned it to the box with the others, and turned back to find Sherlock very slowly and gingerly easing his pyjama trousers up over his punished bottom. John couldn’t help but wince at the sight of the deep pink welts the cane had left behind. He knew logically that Sherlock had deserved every bit of it, but those stripes did look awfully sore.

Sherlock had managed to get his pyjama bottoms up, but he gave a little groan as the fabric settled over his backside. He got the drawstring tied and turned sad grey eyes on John, looking dejected enough that John was very tempted to give him another hug right there.

Better to get him safely downstairs and more comfortable first, though, John told himself. He waved Sherlock towards the door, and together they headed back downstairs. Sherlock walked rather slowly and cautiously, although he didn’t actually seem unsteady on his feet. Even so, John stayed close to him on the stairs just in case, not wanting to risk him falling.

They made it downstairs without incident, and after a quick stop in the kitchen to retrieve an ice pack from the freezer, John directed Sherlock straight into his bedroom and pointed him towards the bed. “Right then. Pyjamas off again,” he said, not without sympathy—it had looked uncomfortable enough for Sherlock to get them on in the first place. “The top too; I need to get to those bruises on your back as well as your bottom. It might be best if you get into bed now, so the rest of you can stay warm while I’m working.”

Sherlock was blushing again, but then, it wasn’t like John hadn’t treated injuries on him before—or soothed his bottom after a spanking, either. The only difference here was that it would be both at once.

As John turned the bedcovers back for him, Sherlock very gingerly began the process of easing himself back out of his pyjama bottoms. He made a few unhappy sounding noises, but finally managed to get them off again, and once they were removed he stretched himself carefully out on the bed. He wriggled out of his t-shirt and tossed it over the side, then grabbed a pillow and pulled it down so that he could wrap his arms around it. John didn’t let himself smile at that, but he had to admit, he found the whole pillow-hugging thing very endearing.

He stepped back over to the bed and pulled the covers up, so that Sherlock was covered to just below his bottom, and then handed over the ice pack, which Sherlock rolled his eyes at but dutifully held against his cheek. With Sherlock settled, John then took a seat on the bed and leaned forward to examine the damage more closely, giving a wince and a low whistle as he got a good look at the marks the cane had left.

All right, being entirely honest with himself, they really weren’t terrible. He hadn’t broken the skin at all, which he was very relieved to see—he’d been doing his level best to be careful with the cane, but it had been the first time he’d used one of the bloody things for real. And some of the angry colour had already faded from the stripes, leaving them a deep pink rather than the vivid red they had been to begin with. Even so, the welts left behind still looked impressive, especially against Sherlock’s pale skin. Each one really was a tramline; twin lines of raised skin surrounding the stripe where the cane had landed. They weren’t terrible, no, but they still looked awfully sore, and John could tell just with a glance that poor Sherlock wasn’t going to be sitting comfortably for at least a couple of days.

He patted Sherlock’s back in sympathy, then reached for the arnica cream, which had remained in almost permanent residence on Sherlock’s bedside table.

“Let’s take care of these stripes first,” he said, settling back onto the bed beside Sherlock’s prone form. He popped the lid off the cream and scooped out a fingerful, then began very gently smoothing it across the lowest of the cane welts. Sherlock tensed immediately, clutching his pillow a bit harder.

“It’s okay,” John soothed him. “I’ll be as gentle as I can be, I promise. This will help it feel better.”

Sherlock’s response was to bury his face in his pillow with the air of a martyr. Wanting to offer a bit of comfort, John returned his free hand to the small of Sherlock’s back and left it there as he took up with the arnica again.

He kept his word, making sure to keep his touch as gentle as he could, and little by little as he worked his way up the welts, Sherlock slowly began to relax. By the time John got up to the two ‘corner time’ stripes—which also looked sore but rather less so than the six from Sherlock’s actual punishment—Sherlock had eased off his death grip on his pillow, and even turned his face to the side instead of trying to suffocate himself.

“Bit better?” John asked him, and Sherlock nodded, his eyes closed.

“Good,” John said, satisfied. “I’ll get those bruises on your back next, then. Would you like the covers up?”

Sherlock hesitated for a moment, then opened his eyes and peered over his shoulder at John. “Just the sheet?” he asked, sounding sheepish.

“Just the sheet it is,” John agreed, quite understanding why Sherlock wouldn’t want the added pressure of the duvet on his bottom.

He stood and drew the sheet up so that Sherlock was covered to the waist, lowering it carefully into place, then he sat down closer to the head of the bed, where he could reach the bruises scattered across Sherlock’s upper back. He leaned close to have a better look at them, and after a few moments of careful perusal, he was satisfied that they weren’t going to be severe. They were colouring a little now, but Sherlock’s layers of clothing must have acted as enough of a buffer to blunt the impacts.

“It’s a good thing your coat’s so thick,” he said, reaching for the arnica cream and scooping out another fingerful of it.

“It’s too bad I didn’t wear it while you were caning me,” Sherlock replied, his tone somewhere between wry and sulky.

“Now that would have defeated the entire purpose,” John said mildly, as he began spreading the cream across the first bruise. Sherlock gave a huff and squirmed his shoulders under John’s ministrations.

“Ow,” he said, stiffly petulant.

John didn’t bother to point out that since Sherlock hadn’t made so much as a peep while John was tending to the certainly much more painful marks on his bottom, complaining now made it pretty obvious he was just doing it for show. He just patted Sherlock’s back in apology and repeated, “I’ll be as gentle I can be.”

Apparently mollified by this promise, Sherlock gave another huff, but settled.

It didn’t take long to tend to the bruises on Sherlock’s back, and once they were done, John turned his attention to the one on his face. “Turn your head a bit more to the side,” he instructed, and when Sherlock dutifully removed the ice pack and obeyed, John began carefully smoothing the cream over the darkened smudge on his cheekbone. He made sure to keep his touch very light, but Sherlock still winced a couple of times as the cream was applied.

“He got you a good one there,” John murmured. Luckily the impact had missed Sherlock’s eye, or it would have hurt even more.

“It was a lucky shot,” Sherlock replied. “Blocking was a bit awkward.”

“Rolling around on top of a bus, I bet it was,” John said wryly. “There, all finished. Now there’s just your knee.” He glanced down, taking in Sherlock’s prone position. “Just roll on your side for a minute, and you can just stick your leg out.”

Sherlock sighed as if all of this was severely trying, but he did shift over onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow and extending his leg for John’s ministrations. John made short work of putting arnica on his bruised knee, and then recapped the tub and set it firmly on Sherlock’s bedside table.

Right, he told himself with finality. That was the doctoring over with, which meant that now it was time to move onto the next phase of Sherlock’s punishment. Unfortunately, John had the sinking feeling that Sherlock wasn’t going to be very much happier about this part than he had been about the cane.

He stepped back from the bed and firmed his expression, consciously exchanging his doctor demeanour for his disciplinarian one.

“Right, all done,” he said. “Now we need to talk about the rules for the next part of your punishment.”

He wasn’t surprised when Sherlock’s eyes widened in alarm and obvious consternation. John had told Sherlock that this was coming, but he suspected Sherlock had been far more concerned with the cane that had been hovering over his bottom at the time. Sherlock had also had not only a caning, but a long cuddle time and a longer nap since then, so it was quite possible that he’d forgotten about it—or perhaps had been quietly hoping that John had.

“I told you upstairs that you were being sent to bed for the rest of the day,” John went on, before Sherlock had a chance to protest. “Obviously we need to talk about what that means. First things first: you can get up and put your pyjamas back on, but after that, you’re going to get back into bed and stay there. You’re allowed to get up and use the loo, but apart from that, being sent to bed means that you stay in bed. If you need something—if you’re hungry or thirsty or anything like that—you can call me and I’ll get you something. I’ll stay close by so I’ll hear you.”

John could see the swiftly building dismay on Sherlock’s face, and knew it was only going to get worse as he laid out the rest of the rules. He spoke on before Sherlock could interrupt.

“While you are in bed as a punishment, your activities are curtailed to zero. You are not allowed to use your phone, or your laptop. You are not allowed to read, write, or anything else for that matter. You can sleep if you want to, or you can think. That’s it.”

Sherlock stared at him, his eyes wide. The look on his face had gone past dismay now and into real horror. “You’re joking,” he said in obvious disbelief. “I’m not allowed to do _anything_?”

“You can sleep, and you can think,” John repeated. “All other activities are off limits.”

“For how long?” Sherlock asked, still looking utterly horrified.

“On this occasion, you’re being sent to bed for the rest of the day,” John said firmly. “That means all of what’s left of today, and tonight through until tomorrow morning.”

There was actually very little left of today, it being early evening already, but John knew that was still a long time for Sherlock to have to endure enforced inactivity (and thus boredom). However, he felt justified in his decision. Sherlock’s raft of insane misbehaviour today had earned him a severe punishment, one that would be unpleasant enough and memorable enough to hopefully make him think twice about a repeat performance. John was going to make sure that he got it.

“All day? All _day_?” Sherlock repeated, quite ignoring the fact that the day was mostly over and speaking in a tone that would have been more suited to John telling him he intended to remove a finger or two. “John, you _can’t_. Please!” His expression was openly beseeching. “I’ll—this is—John, I’ll go mad!”

“You won’t go mad,” John told him, unmoved. It was, he noticed, quite a lot easier to remain unmoved when he was sending Sherlock to bed instead of caning him.

“I will!” Sherlock insisted. “I’ll die of boredom! No, this isn’t fair. You already caned me! Isn’t that enough?”

“After what you did today? No, it’s not enough,” John said sternly. “Your misbehaviour was extreme and you’re getting a correspondingly severe punishment. The cane was the first part. Going to bed for the rest of the day is the second. As for you being bored, that’s the whole point. Being sent to bed is supposed to be boring and unpleasant. That’s why it’s a punishment.”

He spoke with no trace of hesitation, knowing he needed to hold his ground, but he could easily read the mounting fury and frustration in Sherlock’s face, as well as the sudden rigid tension in his body. Sherlock was about to blow a fuse, it was written all over him, and John really didn’t want to have to smack him again for throwing a tantrum, not when Sherlock was already so very sore.

With that in mind, he hastily tried to avert the coming fit, speaking sharply and in obvious warning. “Sherlock, calm down. Right now, I mean it.”

For a moment he thought it had worked, but unfortunately it seemed that tantrum-wise, Sherlock had already reached the point of no return.

“This is not fair!” Sherlock exploded. Face flushing with temper, he scrambled up onto his knees on the bed, clutching the sheet around his waist. It was an attempt at an aggressive posture, or at the very least an attempt to face John on a more even footing, but with Sherlock naked but for a sheet it didn’t really come off on either count. Sherlock obviously knew it, too, because his flush became even deeper and his voice grew louder, as if he was trying to make up for it.

“It’s not fair, John! You can’t punish me with boredom! That’s not punishment, that’s torture! And you’ve already caned me and it _hurt!_ It’s not fair to punish me even more!”

John really could understand Sherlock’s distress, and he genuinely did sympathise. Knowing how much Sherlock despised being bored, this punishment must seem terribly severe, especially after he had just endured a very painful caning. However, John had already made it clear that he wasn’t going to put up with tantrums, and he didn’t plan to go back on that now. Sherlock had ignored his warning to calm down, and now there would have to be consequences.

“That’s enough!” he barked, in full Captain Watson mode now. “Off the bed, Sherlock. Stand up. Now!”

His command to calm down hadn’t made any impact, but that one did. Sherlock froze in place, his eyes going huge, and the frustrated anger in his face instantly gave way to alarm. His tantrum gave way too, as Sherlock realised his mistake and suddenly became much more conciliatory.

“No, John, please,” he begged, clearly trying to sound as appeasing as possible. “I’ll stop. Look, I’ve stopped. Please don’t.”

In answer, John just pointed firmly to the spot on the floor just beside the bed. “I said stand up.”

Very reluctantly, Sherlock inched forwards on the bed and gingerly slid off it, taking the sheet with him. Once he had his feet on the floor, John took him firmly by the elbow and turned him around to face the bed. Sherlock allowed himself to be turned, but his eyes pleaded with John all the way, and as John bent him forward with a hand between his shoulder blades, he began to plead out loud again as well.

“John, please,” he said, sounding a little desperate. “Not on top of that caning. I’m so sore already.”

The fact that Sherlock was willing to beg so openly for a reprieve was a good indicator of just how sore he really was, and after seeing those stripes on his bottom, John could well understand why. As it happened, he had no intention of smacking Sherlock on top of that caning, nor did he intend to be harsh. There were, after all, other perfectly good targets that the cane hadn’t touched, and a few smacks across his thighs would serve as a good lesson to Sherlock about throwing tantrums while he was being punished.

Or so John told himself, as he tried hard to keep his authoritarian demeanour in place. But as he tugged Sherlock’s covering sheet out of the way, bringing his painfully striped bottom back into view, he found his will to mete out even a mild punishment rapidly crumbling. Sherlock was tense to the point of quivering, obviously dreading having yet more punishment layered on top of his very sore bottom, and yet he remained obediently in place, still prepared to bravely bear whatever discipline John decided on. John suddenly wanted very badly to hug him again, and realised with chagrin that he was right on the verge of caving completely.

He knew he couldn’t let himself do it, though, no matter how much he wanted to. The logical side of him knew—and was firmly insisting—that caving would both set a bad precedent, and would probably also make Sherlock anxious. Still, John told himself reasonably, maybe he didn’t have to be quite as firm as he’d originally intended to be. It was, after all, entirely understandable that Sherlock would be unhappy about being sent to bed, especially after he’d already been caned. And Sherlock had stopped his tantrum as soon as John got really stern with him, so really he’d already made his point. A very mild, symbolic punishment would surely be quite enough to drive it home.

Having fully rationalised that to himself, he thus managed not to cave—at least, not quite. However, the two smacks he administered, one each across the tops of Sherlock’s thighs, were probably better described as ‘firm pats’ rather than actual smacks. Sherlock didn’t even flinch as they connected, and when no more followed them, he turned his head to cast a dubious look over his shoulder, as if he couldn’t quite believe that was the end of his punishment.

“You can stand up now,” John told him, and Sherlock slowly obeyed, still eyeing John over his shoulder in bemusement. “No more tantrums,” John added, pointing a stern finger at him. “Understood?”

Sherlock nodded hastily, as if anxious not to press his luck, and John gave a satisfied nod in return. “Good.” With that resolved, he moved to gather up Sherlock’s discarded pyjamas and held them out to him. “Come on then, let’s get these back on you,” he said, his voice mild again now that the punishment—such as it was—was over.

Sherlock obediently took the offered pyjamas and began the process of manoeuvring himself back into them, while John reclaimed the sheet Sherlock had wrapped himself in and quickly remade the bed. As it turned out, he needn’t have hurried—Sherlock got into his t-shirt easily enough, but the trousers presented more of a problem, and even taking obvious care and more time than was probably reasonable, he still hissed in pain as he drew them up over his bottom.

Once Sherlock was finally dressed again—or as dressed as he was going to get until tomorrow, at least—he looked forlornly down at the bed, then back up at John, his eyes wide with earnest appeal.

“Bedtime,” John said firmly, forcing himself to ignore the beseeching look—at least for the most part. “But since you got punished again, it’s cuddle time too,” he added, glad to have an excuse to offer some more comfort. “Come on.” He pulled the covers back and gestured for Sherlock to climb in.

Sherlock heaved a dejected sigh, but climbed unwillingly into bed, lying down carefully on his front. John toed off his shoes and slid in beside him, then patted his shoulder in invitation. “Come on,” he said again, kindly. “It’ll make you feel better.”

Sherlock’s woebegone expression would have been entirely at home on a kicked puppy, but he scooted over nonetheless and took up his favoured position, cuddled close with his face turned into John’s shoulder. John wrapped his arms around him and began to gently rub between his shoulder blades, his hand moving soothingly back and forth.

“I know you’re not happy,” he said, settling his other hand on top of Sherlock’s curly head. “But you’re being punished, and it’s supposed to be unpleasant. It’ll be over soon enough, and you’ll have learned a lesson from it.” _I hope_ , he added silently to himself.

Sherlock made an unhappy sound into his shoulder. “But you already caned me,” he said, and even muffled by John’s shoulder the sulky tone was still clearly audible.

“I did, and I know it was very sore,” John replied. “But you know why I’m doing this, Sherlock. You could have been killed today, all because you decided to take absolutely unnecessary chances with your life. I won’t have it. And if it takes a severe punishment to drive that home to you, then that’s what I’ll give you. Because that’s what you’re trusting me to do.”

He spoke quietly but firmly, rubbing Sherlock’s back all the while, hoping that the comforting touch would say as much about his feelings and his intentions as the words did. Apparently it had at least some impact, since Sherlock gave up trying to protest further and instead heaved another tragic sounding sigh into John’s shoulder.

“Are you really going to make me stay in bed all day?” he asked, in a suddenly small voice.

“It’s hardly all day at this point,” John said, glancing automatically at Sherlock’s bedside clock. “It’s evening already. But yes, you’re staying in bed until tomorrow morning, as punishment for making some very bad decisions today. I know you’re unhappy about it, but you need to learn that you’re not going to get away with behaving like that anymore. I meant what I said upstairs, Sherlock—if you don’t have the sense in your head to keep yourself safe, then I’ll do it for you.”

Sherlock sighed again, sounding martyred in the extreme, but John didn’t miss the way he snuggled a little closer even as he did it. After a moment or two his arm stole across to wrap around John’s waist, and he closed his fingers loosely around a fold of John’s shirt, not really clutching this time, but just holding on.

_For comfort_ , John thought. _It makes him feel safe_.

And what John had said to him had had the same effect, he was sure of it. On some level, Sherlock had liked it, even though he was sulking about it. Being told that John intended to keep him safe, even if Sherlock wouldn’t or couldn’t do it himself, had meant something to him.

“I mean it, you daft lunatic,” John said, his voice dropping to a fond murmur. He turned his head and pressed a light kiss into Sherlock’s hair, feeling the need to repeat himself, to make it clear to Sherlock that he was committed to this. “I’ll keep you safe, whether you like it or not.”

Sherlock was silent for several moments after that, although his hand tightened a little around the fold of shirt he’d claimed. When he finally replied, his voice was still small, almost hesitant. “I know I went too far today. I didn’t mean to.”

“I know,” John said gently. “Once you’re on the trail, you’re like a dog with a bone. But that’s the point, Sherlock. If you can’t hold yourself back, not even when your life is at risk, then I’m going to have to do it for you. You could get yourself killed doing things like that, and all for no good reason.”

Sherlock shifted against him, pressing his face more firmly into John’s shoulder. He didn’t reply at first, and the silence stretched on for so long that John began to think he didn’t intend to reply at all. But finally Sherlock gave another uncomfortable little shift and slowly turned his face to the side, just enough so that he could speak more clearly. With his voice no longer muffled by John’s shoulder, the note of hesitancy, of reluctance in it was even more noticeable.

“There was a reason,” he said very quietly. “I mean, more than … just wanting to catch him.”

Whatever Sherlock was about to tell him, he was obviously unhappy about discussing it. The fact that he was bringing it up anyway could only mean that on some level, at least, he thought John should know about it.

John kept rubbing Sherlock’s back, keeping his voice low and even as he said, “Tell me.” Encouraging, not demanding.

There was another long pause. John could hear Sherlock breathing, a soft, deliberate cadence in and out, and got the impression that he was using it to steady himself. Finally Sherlock said flatly, “He’s a cocaine addict. The murderer.”

_Oh_.

John suddenly felt like an idiot for not making the connection before. Christ, of course. Lennon was a cocaine addict; Sherlock had picked that as soon as he’d seen him, had even called him out on it. John had been more concerned with the danger Sherlock had put himself in by chasing not only a violent murderer, but a violent murderer on a cocaine high. But now, he could only think _of course_ , because suddenly it made so much sense. The killer was a cocaine addict, and Sherlock … had been.

No, still was, John corrected himself. Most likely still was. Most addicts were addicts for life; they were only on the wagon or off it. Sherlock was on, but that didn’t mean the addiction itself was banished.

It wasn’t something they’d talked about before, not really. John knew about it, of course, had known since that first case together, since Lestrade’s impromptu ‘drugs bust’ had brought it to light. He’d been very surprised then. Sherlock hadn’t seemed the type at all. As John had got to know him better, though, he’d been more able to understand the appeal to him, at least of something like cocaine. He couldn’t picture Sherlock as a heavy drinker, and definitely not as a pot smoker. Things like that would slow him down, dull his thoughts; he’d hate it. Cocaine, though, would have sped him up. And Sherlock did love to go fast.

But deductions like that were all he’d had to go on. Sherlock hadn’t volunteered anything about it, and John hadn’t asked, not wanting to pry. It was enough that he’d known Sherlock was clean. But now, here they were, and Sherlock _was_ volunteering information. That he would do that, despite his obvious reluctance, showed a level of trust that John was deeply touched by.

He was still rubbing Sherlock’s back between his shoulder blades, a slow and soothing back and forth. “And that made you want to catch him even more,” he said. It wasn’t quite a question, but his tone made it open-ended, an encouragement for Sherlock to keep talking.

“Yes,” Sherlock said, in the same flat tone. “I had to catch him. You were right, what you said. We’d already caught him. The police could have picked him up. But I couldn’t let it go.”

He drew in a sharp breath, and abruptly pushed himself up on one elbow, shifting back enough so that he could meet John’s eyes. This time when he spoke, the neutral tone was gone, replaced by a sudden low intensity.

“I was never like that,” he said. “I was never at a point where I would have done whatever it took to keep getting those hits. But I could have been, John.”

John met his eyes steadily. “You’re not a murderer, Sherlock. You wouldn’t have done that.” His tone was quiet, level, without a trace of doubt.

Sherlock gave a wry little twist of his lips. “There are those who think I’d do it now, even without the cocaine.”

“People who don’t know you, maybe,” John said. “I know better.”

“Do you?”

“Yes,” John said firmly. He reached up and cupped his hand around Sherlock’s head, tugging lightly. “Come here. Come on.”

Sherlock resisted for a moment, but only for a moment, and then he allowed John to guide his head back down. John wrapped his arms around him, carding his fingers gently through Sherlock’s hair, and began to rub his back again, returning to the same slow, soothing motion. At first Sherlock was tense against him, but then he made a low sound in his throat and turned his face back against John’s shoulder, relaxing all in a rush, as if he was a balloon that had just been popped.

“Good,” John told him, his tone gentle now. “That’s good. Relax. I’m right here.” He felt Sherlock take hold of his shirt again and smiled a little. “You can hold onto me whenever you want to.” The hand tightened, and Sherlock sighed into his shoulder, very softly.

John was silent for a few moments after that, just giving Sherlock some breathing space. He knew he had to keep going, though. Sherlock had brought this up, despite his reluctance, and John wanted to make sure that Sherlock got the chance to say what he needed to. What he needed to, even if he didn’t altogether want to.

He thought about the best way to begin again, and finally just settled for being somewhat blunt, albeit in a gentle tone. “It was bad, wasn’t it? Your addiction.”

There was a long pause, as if Sherlock was deciding whether to answer him or not, but then he sighed and nodded into John’s shoulder. “Yes.” He turned his face just a little, so that he could speak more clearly. “I told myself it wasn’t, but it was.”

“They usually are,” John agreed, with a soft sigh of his own. “So. You went to rehab?”

“Yes.”

“By choice?”

Sherlock gave a snort. “Hardly.” A pause, then he added more softly, “Not at first, anyway.”

“Someone pushed you into it, then?” John thought about the very small list of people who were likely to have done that and made a guess. “Mycroft?”

“No. Well, him too,” Sherlock admitted. “But it was Lestrade. He knew.” He snorted again. “I suppose it was getting rather obvious. He said he wouldn’t work with me anymore until I’d been to rehab.”

Bloody hell, John thought. He’d bet that hadn’t gone down well. Depriving Sherlock of work was like depriving him of a limb. And an ultimatum like that to an in-denial addict would have only added insult to already grievous injury.

He made a sympathetic noise and stroked Sherlock’s hair, instinctively seeking to comfort. “That wouldn’t have been easy to hear.”

“I wouldn’t hear it,” Sherlock said flatly, then he gave a heavy sigh. “Not until I managed to have an overdose.”

John winced. Cocaine overdoses weren’t uncommon, he knew that, but he hated to think of Sherlock going through that. And he hated even more to think of Sherlock going through that without John there to help him.

“Was it bad?” he asked, cuddling Sherlock a bit more closely to him.

“Bad enough,” Sherlock said. “I had a seizure and collapsed. If I hadn’t been in Mrs Hudson’s flat at the time, I might not be here now.”

John closed his eyes, concentrating for a moment on the feel of Sherlock’s warmth against him, on the mop of curly hair under his fingers, and made a mental note to be forever grateful to Mrs Hudson just for existing.

“And then you went to rehab,” he said, trying not to let the sudden rush of emotion bleed through into his voice. Some of it must have been audible to Sherlock, though, because he nuzzled his head against John’s shoulder, squeezing him around the middle for a moment.

“Mycroft had a car waiting when I got out of the hospital,” he said. He sounded disgusted by the memory, but John was silently grateful to Mycroft, too. And Lestrade, for that matter, for forcing the issue in the first place.

“I’m glad you went,” he said, smoothing his hand across Sherlock’s mop of curls.

Sherlock hummed at the touch, nuzzling John’s shoulder again. Then he said wryly, “I didn’t exactly have a lot of choice at the time.”

“You had a choice,” John told him. “And you chose to get help. I’m glad you did.”

Sherlock was silent for a long moment, then he said very quietly, “I am too.” He added in a more acerbic tone, “Even if rehab was absolutely hellish.”

John smiled. “Boring?” he guessed.

“Beyond boring,” Sherlock said emphatically. “I stagnated. I suspect I lost brain cells by the day.”

John tried to bite back his chuckle, but didn’t quite manage it. He stroked Sherlock’s hair again in apology, saying fondly, “I think you had a few to spare.”

Sherlock huffed, but leaned into his touch anyway, then turned his face back into John’s shoulder with a sigh. John suspected that signalled the end of the conversation, at least for now, and was quietly glad that Sherlock had trusted him enough to reveal as much as he had. But then Sherlock spoke again, the words mumbled very softly, and so muffled that John only just caught them.

“I wish you’d been there.”

John’s breath caught, and he tightened his arms around Sherlock in automatic response, hugging him hard. “I do too,” he said firmly. “I wish I’d been there too. And if I had been, I’d have looked after you.”

Sherlock nodded against his shoulder. “I know.”

“But I’ll look after you now, right?”

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed quietly.

“Good.” John leaned down so that he could kiss the top of Sherlock’s head again, just a fond brush of lips against his curly hair. He was still getting used to just how good it felt, knowing that he was the one who looked after Sherlock now, and more, knowing that Sherlock would let him do it. Sherlock, in all his misbehaving, distractible genius, pulled John’s caretaking instincts fully to the fore, and being able to give in to them and actually _be_ a caretaker for Sherlock was both an honour and a relief.

Sherlock made another soft, contented sound at the gentle contact and snuggled closer to him, turning his face fully into John’s shoulder so that all John could see was the back of his curly head. Burying his face like that seemed to be his comfort position; in a pillow when he was being spanked, and in John’s supportive shoulder during cuddle time afterwards. John was still quietly amazed that he didn’t suffocate, but he wasn’t about to argue with something that Sherlock obviously found reassuring. Besides, it was endearing as all hell.

John cast another quick glance at Sherlock’s bedside clock. He hadn’t forgotten that Sherlock was supposed to be on punishment bedtime at the moment, and that would not generally include John staying with him the whole time. However, he had also just been smacked again—well, sort of—and John wasn’t about to stint him on cuddle time after any punishment, even a symbolic one. Sherlock didn’t seem ready to let go of him yet, and that was fine. John wanted him to feel that he would get all the comfort he needed after being disciplined, no matter how mild it had been.

Besides, it was quite likely that Sherlock would drop off to sleep soon enough. Despite his insomniac tendencies, Sherlock had already demonstrated a habit of falling asleep during cuddle time, once he’d calmed down enough to relax. John didn’t mind at all, especially since Sherlock became even more snuggly when he was sleeping, something else that ranked rather high on John’s endearing scale.

He’d paused in rubbing Sherlock’s back to give him that extra tight hug, but he resumed the motion now, letting his hand slide slowly back and forth. He could feel the sharp points of Sherlock’s spine and shoulder blades just under the skin, and he made a mental note to make sure that Sherlock ate at least something before the night was out. Sherlock’s tendency to skip meal after meal for days on end was not something John approved of at all, and he certainly wouldn’t be much of a caretaker if he let Sherlock get away with starving himself.

That could wait, though. For now, he was more concerned with giving comfort. He still had one hand on Sherlock’s head, his fingers buried in the thick curls, and he began to move them back and forth in rhythm with his back rubbing, curling and uncurling them in a sort of gentle massage. Apparently this was a good thing, because Sherlock made a sound of obvious pleasure and tried to snuggle even closer to him.

“Nice?” John asked, smiling at the reaction.

“Hmmm,” Sherlock replied, the muffled reply sounding almost dreamy. He nuzzled his face against John’s shoulder, and the clear affection in the gesture made John smile even more. So much for Mr Cold and Superior, he thought fondly. During cuddle time, Sherlock was more like Mr Cute and Snuggly, not that he’d ever actually say that to Sherlock’s face.

He hadn’t thought there’d be any more conversation after that, since Sherlock was definitely showing every sign of settling in for his usual post cuddle time nap, and John was rather expecting him to drop off to sleep any minute now. Thus he was rather surprised when Sherlock—in typical contrary Sherlock fashion—abruptly turned his head back to the side, just enough so that he could speak without it being completely muffled.

“You were planning to use the senior cane,” he said, suddenly sounding quite awake again. His tone was low and rather thoughtful, as if this was some interesting observation that he’d been musing on.

John blinked at the sudden change of subject, and waited, but when Sherlock said nothing else he replied slowly, “Yeah, I was.”

“You changed your mind.”

John hesitated for a moment, considering how to reply. He should have known that Sherlock would be able to deduce that he had changed his plan on the fly, even if Sherlock had been waiting very anxiously for a caning at the time. He only hoped his moment of indecision hadn’t made Sherlock uneasy enough to question John’s commitment to him, something that seemed to happen all too easily whenever it looked like John might not stick to the letter of his promises. It was hard to tell on this occasion; Sherlock’s tone wasn’t accusatory, but the fact that he was saying it at all implied that he wanted an answer.

Trying for a light tone, John agreed carefully, “Yes.” Hoping it would be a good approach to take, he added wryly, “I decided to save it for when you muck around with serial killers. That bloke Lennon had only killed one person, according to you. He doesn’t count.”

Sherlock’s silences could often be just as expressive as his words, and John could practically feel the dubiously raised eyebrow that accompanied this one. He sighed and gave a rueful chuckle, patting Sherlock’s back in semi-apology.

“All right, I couldn’t bring myself to do it,” he admitted. “Not with that cane, not this first time, at least. Not when I realised how upset you were about it. I’d promised you a caning and so you got one—and you deserved it, and I don’t regret doing it,” he added more firmly. “But that cane … I just couldn’t. Not this time.”

He was hoping Sherlock wouldn’t react badly to that confession—or the reminder of just how distressed he had been by the prospect of being caned—and was relieved when he felt Sherlock relax against him, nuzzling his face back into John’s shoulder with a sigh. Whatever he had wanted to hear, or perhaps not wanted to hear, John had apparently either said it or not said it. But then, John thought, perhaps he’d just wanted to hear the truth, which was exactly what John had given him.

He cuddled Sherlock closer in automatic response, his hands quickly returning to their gentle combination of back rubbing and hair stroking. “Anyway,” he went on quietly, when it seemed that Sherlock wasn’t going to say anything in reply, “I thought that next cane down would hurt quite enough.”

Sherlock nodded against his shoulder at that, then buried his face even deeper. “Yes,” he agreed. Even muffled as he was, John could tell that he sounded drowsy again already, the moment of alertness apparently gone as abruptly as it had come.

“Well, there you are then,” John told him, since that seemed to have settled it. He added in a softer tone, “And I know it was very sore, but it’s all over now.”

Sherlock gave another nod into his shoulder, before apparently deciding that he had more to say after all. “I never made a fuss like that at school,” he said, sounding earnest now as well as muffled and sleepy. “Never.”

John wasn’t at all surprised to hear that. Teenage pride and an undoubtedly posh, stiff upper lip atmosphere had probably led to Sherlock taking his school canings with as much silent stoicism as he could manage. And given that it was Sherlock they were talking about, John would bet he’d been able to manage quite a lot, even as a child.

However, Sherlock wasn’t at school anymore—thank God—and John definitely didn’t want him to think that silent stoicism was necessary here.

“I bet you didn’t,” he said, very gently. “But you don’t have to do that stiff upper lip thing here, Sherlock. Not with me.”

He heard Sherlock take in a slow breath, and then release it in a long, soft sigh. “Not with you,” he echoed, murmuring it so that smothered in his shoulder as it was, John only just caught it.

“No, not with me,” he confirmed, his voice low and steady. “Never with me. All right?”

There was another slow breath, and another long sigh, and then Sherlock mumbled, “All right.”

And before John could say anything else in reply, Sherlock had gone fully limp against him, his breathing slowed into the deep, even breaths of sleep.

Out like a light, just like that, John thought fondly, and grinned to himself. That was definitely one of the major advantages of cuddle time. Even aside from the cuddle benefits of it, it really was damn useful for encouraging Sherlock the insomniac to actually nap.

Although Sherlock was quite obviously fast asleep, John still gave it another fifteen minutes before he got up, just to make sure that Sherlock was deeply under and thus unlikely to be disturbed when he moved. It wasn’t exactly a hardship, after all. Lying quietly with his own warm and cuddly lunatic genius was really a very pleasant way to spend fifteen minutes, and it was especially so after everything that had happened today. Remembering his very real fear for Sherlock’s safety, it was a relief to just feel Sherlock next to him, warm and breathing and alive, and be reassured that Sherlock was still _here_.

However, John also knew that he really should get up before Sherlock got to the stage of fully wrapping himself around him, which he was very liable to do once he was properly asleep. Sherlock was supposed to be in bed as a punishment right now, and it wouldn’t be very effective discipline if John cuddled him through the whole thing, no matter how much he might like to do that.

With that in mind, once his allotted fifteen minutes were up, he very carefully disentangled himself from Sherlock’s sleeping form and climbed quietly out of bed. He tucked the duvet up around Sherlock, making sure he was warmly covered up, then slipped out into the hall beyond, leaving Sherlock’s door half open. He was planning to stay downstairs, so that he’d hear Sherlock if he called. And even if Sherlock didn’t call, John was planning to take him in some tea and something to eat as soon as he was awake, because being sent to bed definitely wasn’t going to mean Sherlock skipping meals. He already did far too much of that as it was.

For that matter, John was hungry too—not surprising, since it wasn’t as though he’d had any chance to eat today either. However, he was also buggered, and sitting down with a cup of tea for a bit sounded much more appealing right now than thinking about what to have for dinner, or even looking for a snack. Maybe he’d just ring for takeaway, when it came to it. With any luck, Sherlock might even eat that.

Deciding, once he’d thought of it, that tea was definitely the thing, John quickly made himself a cup and collapsed gratefully into a chair with the paper, which he’d had no chance at all to read that morning before Sherlock had dragged them off on their ill-fated adventure. If he could just get twenty minutes or so of peace and quiet, then he was pretty sure he’d be able to see the rest of the evening through, no matter how many tantrums Sherlock threw about having to stay in bed.

As it was, things were blissfully calm and peaceful for almost half an hour, as John drank his tea and skimmed the paper, and Sherlock slept the sleep of the well-punished and overtired. Then John heard the faint sound of the toilet flushing from down the hall behind the kitchen, which told him Sherlock was awake. That in itself was fine—John had told him he could get up to use the loo, obviously. The thing to worry about was whether Sherlock remembered that he was supposed to go straight back to bed afterwards.

John waited, but Sherlock didn’t appear, nor did he hear any more noises—although that didn’t necessarily mean anything. He was just thinking that perhaps he ought to go and check on him, perhaps see if Sherlock could be persuaded to have some tea and toast, when he heard the lunatic genius in question calling his name, sounding distinctly forlorn.

John got up from his chair at once, and made the short trip down the hall to Sherlock’s room. “Hello,” he said, pushing the door open wider as he stepped inside. “I thought I heard you.” He smiled in approval as he saw that Sherlock had indeed got back into bed. “Well done for remembering that you’re supposed to stay in bed.”

Sherlock, however, did not seem particularly cheered by the praise. He was lying on his front, stretched out on a diagonal across the bed so that his head was pointed towards the door. He’d propped himself up on his elbows, resting his chin on his folded hands, and the look he gave John was every bit as mournful as his call had been.

“John, I’m …” He hesitated for a moment, then finished unconvincingly with, “… hungry.”

John suspected that the word he’d really wanted to use was ‘bored’, but since he’d been planning to try to coax Sherlock to eat anyway, he certainly wasn’t about to argue if there was a chance to make that any easier.

“All right,” he said. “That’s good, you need to eat something. I thought I’d ring for takeaway in a bit, but I can make you a snack for now. Toast? Sandwiches?”

Sherlock sighed, but said without enthusiasm, “Toast, please.”

“Toast it is,” John said. “Jam? Honey?”

“We’re out of honey,” Sherlock told him disconsolately. “I looked yesterday.”

“I’ll get some tomorrow, then,” John said. “For now, you’ll have to make do with jam.”

Sherlock somehow managed to look even more dejected at this, and John had to force himself not to smile. He really was sympathetic, but Sherlock looked so adorably (and most likely deliberately) pitiful.

“I’ll make you some tea, too,” he said kindly. “You’ll feel better once you’ve had something to eat.”

Sherlock cast him a disbelieving look at that, but said nothing. John turned and stepped back out into the hall, and decided it was best if he pretended not to hear the loudly muttered, “I will not,” that drifted after him. Being stuck in bed and bored—and sore to boot—was going to be hard on Sherlock, and John wasn’t going to begrudge him a bit of sulking about it, so long as it didn’t go too far.

He busied himself in the kitchen making tea, some sandwiches just in case Sherlock could be tempted later, even if not now, and finally toast with liberal amounts of jam. He put the lot onto a tray and juggled it back down the hall to Sherlock’s room, finding him sprawled out in the same position as before, only with his head now resting on his folded arms. Sherlock looked up unhappily as he came in, and propped himself back up onto his elbows, eyeing the tray John was holding with a marked lack of enthusiasm.

Knowing that Sherlock would be unlikely to want to sit, if he could even bear to on those stripes, John slid the tray onto the bed in front of him. “Tea, toast, and some sandwiches just in case you’re in the mood,” he said. “I want you to eat at least a bit, all right?” He paused. “Have you eaten at all today?”

Sherlock shook his head, and John sighed. “That’s really not good for you, you know. Drink your tea, and at least have some toast. And think about what you’d like for takeaway, too. You can choose.”

Sherlock eyed the contents of the tray with no more enthusiasm than he’d shown before, then cast an appealing look up at John. “Do I really have to stay here for the rest of the day?”

John didn’t bother to point out again that it was already evening, instead simply saying in a firm tone, “Yes, you do.”

“John,” Sherlock said urgently. “I will go mad with boredom in here. I truly will.”

“No, you won’t,” John told him. “Not in one evening. I’m sorry it’s unpleasant, but that’s the whole point. You’re being punished. It’s meant to be unpleasant.”

“But—” Sherlock began, and John cut him off sternly.

“No, Sherlock. No buts. You don’t decide how you get punished, I do. You’ve been sent to bed for bad behaviour and that’s all there is to it.” He stepped closer and patted Sherlock’s shoulder comfortingly, although he kept his expression firm. “Now, eat something. I want to see at least some of that gone when I come back, all right?”

Sherlock’s only answer was a gusty, put upon sigh, and John patted his shoulder again and left him to it. He wasn’t unsympathetic, but he also wasn’t about to relent on Sherlock’s punishment, and it wouldn’t be nearly as effective if John was in there with him too much. He’d gladly make sure Sherlock had food and tea, and he’d check on him at intervals, but he couldn’t be a constant source of distraction. That would defeat the whole purpose of sending Sherlock to bed in the first place.

Since he couldn’t order takeaway until Sherlock knew what he wanted, John hastily made some toast for himself, because he really was bloody starving now and toast would at least hold him over until they could get something more substantial. He settled gratefully back into his chair, quickly decided he’d had enough of the paper and turned the telly on instead. It was easy enough to kill half an hour that way, and it was another half hour of much needed peace, before he thought that he ought to go and check in on Sherlock again. With any luck, Sherlock might even have eaten something—or at least have chosen an option for takeaway.

He wandered back down the hall, decided not to tap on the door on the very small chance that Sherlock might have gone back to sleep, and poked his head in. He was met with the sight of Sherlock lying sideways across the bed, once again propped up on his elbows and blinking at John in studied, wide-eyed innocence.

Conversely, John’s eyes immediately narrowed in suspicion. There was far too much innocence in Sherlock’s expression for anything good to have been going on. He was just about to say something—although he wasn’t quite sure what, since demanding ‘what are you up to?’ seemed just a tad harsh—when he was saved from having to consider in any more detail by the familiar chime of Sherlock’s phone receiving a text.

Apparently, it was receiving a text underneath his pillow.

John’s expression turned dangerous, and Sherlock winced. Holding out a hand, John said sternly, “Phone. Now.”

Sherlock hastily retrieved it from where he must have stuffed it under his pillow, no doubt when he heard John coming, and handed it over. John glanced down at the screen. Lestrade. No surprises there, then.

“He texted me first,” Sherlock said quickly, his eyes wide not with faked innocence now, but with obvious alarm. “Honestly, John, he did. I thought I’d better read it just in case it was important. And it was Lestrade so I thought I ought to reply. I didn’t start it!”

John was unmoved by this explanation, since he knew very well that Sherlock would quite happily ignore texts whenever he pleased, without particularly caring whether they were important or not. He would also frequently insist that John check his phone instead, if he was doing something he didn’t want to be distracted from. He’d chosen to do neither of those this time because it suited him not to, and gave him an excuse to do something other than lie in bed being bored.

And having given Sherlock strict instructions about phone use, or lack thereof, to go with bedtime, John knew he couldn’t let him get away with such blatant disobedience during a punishment.

He fixed Sherlock with a stern look and said, “Did I or did I not say no phone when you’ve been sent to bed?”

Sherlock bit his lip in a way that John would have found very endearing if he’d allowed himself to, which right now he wasn’t going to. “Yes, but—”

“No.” John cut him off before he could make any more excuses. “No buts. I said no phone. You ignore texts all the time, or you get me to answer them. Both of those options were open to you. You chose to disobey me while you were being punished, and now there are going to be consequences.”

Not that John was looking forward to handing them out—not one bit—but he’d already made it very clear to Sherlock that disobedience while he was being punished wasn’t on. Sherlock had known very well that his phone was off limits, and now John had to follow through on what he’d promised.

“Since you can’t be trusted with your phone,” he went on sternly, “I’m confiscating it until tomorrow. As for the rest, up you get. You don’t like being stuck in bed, but you might find you prefer it to where you’re about to be.”

Those words were ominous enough to make Sherlock gulp, and he gazed up at John pleadingly, grey eyes wide with appeal. John answered with an even stare, forcing himself to ignore that deliberately beseeching look.

“You knew what would happen, Sherlock,” he said. “You made the choice to disobey. Stand up. Right now, please.”

His voice left no room for argument, and Sherlock’s pleading look turned to miserable apprehension. He gave a deep, unhappy sigh, but dutifully wriggled himself off the bed, being careful not to put any pressure on his bottom. Once he was up, John took him by the arm and turned him back to face the bed.

“Come on,” he said. “Pyjamas down and bend over.”

Sherlock’s forlorn expression could have broken hearts, but he obediently hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his pyjama bottoms, then very slowly and gingerly eased them down over his sore bottom. He paused to cast one final look of appeal at John over his shoulder, but when it was met with nothing but a sternly raised eyebrow, Sherlock heaved another tragic sigh and let his pyjamas fall the rest of the way to the floor. With obvious reluctance, he bent over and rested his palms flat on the bed.

John put a firm hand on Sherlock’s back, both as reassurance and to keep him in place if need be. He certainly wasn’t going to be harsh—it had only been a minor bit of disobedience, and Sherlock was being punished harshly enough already—and he still had no intention of spanking Sherlock on top of those very painful looking stripes, at least not for something like this. But he was going to give Sherlock a few good smacks to make his point, and this time they weren’t just going to be symbolic pats.

“You do not disobey me while you’re being punished,” he scolded, and planted two sharp, stinging smacks across the tops of Sherlock’s thighs, one to each. Sherlock jumped as the smacks connected, and let out a squeak that sounded more surprised than actually hurt. He jolted half-upright, as if in shock, but when John applied a bit of pressure to his back he quickly bent over again, bracing his hands back on the bed.

“When I say no, I mean no,” John went on sternly, and swiftly administered another two smacks in the same spots. Sherlock squeaked again and curled his toes up tightly against the floorboards, but remained obediently in position.

“Every time, Sherlock,” John told him. “When you’re being punished, every time you disobey me, you’re going to get smacked. And when I say every time, I mean every time.”

That scolding came with another pair of smacks, and this time Sherlock remained silent but squirmed in place, shifting from foot to foot in obvious discomfort. The tops of his thighs had now turned a bright, smarting pink, and combined with his undoubtedly still sore cane stripes, he must have been seriously stinging.

All right, then, John thought, trying to ignore the pangs of sympathy that rose up every time he looked at those cane stripes. Four more, and then he’d call it done. Hopefully that would make enough of a point that Sherlock wouldn’t be keen to earn himself any more extra punishment.

“Four more,” he warned out loud. “And they’re going to be sore. Deep breath.”

Sherlock hastily sucked in a breath, and John felt him tense in anticipation. Wanting to get it over with, he made the last four smacks rapid fire, two on one thigh and then two on the other, still in those same two spots. Sherlock had apparently braced himself enough that he didn’t jump, but he did let out a low whine at the sting, and began to scrabble unhappily at the floor with his toes.

John let his hand slide down to rub the small of Sherlock’s back, automatically seeking to soothe him now that the punishment was over. “All done,” he said, his voice gentle again. “All over, and now it’s cuddle time, whenever you’re ready.”

Sherlock promptly made it clear that he was ready right then by flopping forwards onto the bed, his pyjama bottoms still tangled around his ankles. He wriggled himself around on the bed so that there was room for John to lie down beside him, buried his face firmly in his folded arms and waited with an air of obvious expectation.

It was, John thought in some surprise, about as obvious as Sherlock had ever been in all but asking outright for cuddle time, even if it wasn’t with words. And really, words were hardly necessary when Sherlock’s body language was all but shouting it.

Touched and pleased that Sherlock was willing to be so open with him, John hastily climbed up onto the bed beside him. “Come here,” he said kindly, holding an arm out in invitation for a cuddle. Apparently that was all the urging Sherlock needed, because he immediately wriggled close and buried his face in John’s shoulder, wrapping an arm around his waist at the same time and holding on tightly.

John couldn’t help the tender sound he made as he put his arms around Sherlock in return, hugging him close. “There, there,” he said softly, his voice dropping automatically into his low, soothing ‘cuddle time’ tones. “You’re all right. It’s all over now, and I’m here. You just hold onto me, and I’ll look after you.”

He slid his hand up to cradle the back of Sherlock’s head, combing his fingers gently through the messy curls. Sherlock pressed himself closer and made a pleading little sound that John interpreted as ‘don’t stop’, so he obligingly kept it up, caressing Sherlock’s hair with one hand and matching the rhythm as he rubbed his back with the other. By now, he thought he was getting pretty good at it.

“All over now,” he said again. “All done. And you were very brave. I know that was sore, especially when you’re so sore already.”

Sherlock nodded fervently into John’s shoulder, apparently agreeing with that. He wasn’t actually crying, John didn’t think, or even on the verge of it, but he was making it very clear that he wanted comfort, and John couldn’t help trying to cuddle him even closer.

“I know,” he said, almost crooning it. His tone during cuddle time could edge more than a little into sounding like he was talking to a child, but Sherlock didn’t seem to mind, something that still quietly amazed John. But then, it felt right for him to do it, so perhaps correspondingly it felt right for Sherlock to let him.

“I know it hurts,” he soothed, sliding his hand up and down the bony ridge of Sherlock’s spine. “But I’m right here, and you can hold onto me for as long as you want. I’m not going anywhere.”

Sherlock had already pressed himself about as close to John as he could get without actually climbing on top of him, but even so he tried to snuggle a bit closer, making another of those sad little noises into John’s shoulder that John was certain could have broken harder hearts than his. He kissed the top of Sherlock’s head fondly and kept up his murmured reassurance, along with the comforting caress of Sherlock’s back and his hair.

It wasn’t long before Sherlock began to relax again—the smacking John had given him hadn’t actually been at all severe, even though it had been applied to a rather more tender area. It would have stung fiercely at the time, but it wasn’t going to keep burning the way John was sure those cane stripes were. Still, he planned to apply some more arnica cream later, to the whole punished area. He was under no illusions as to how much the caning especially had hurt, and he wanted Sherlock to be able to sleep tonight if he possibly could.

That could wait, though. For now, Sherlock had become heavy and almost limp against him, and John wondered if perhaps he was already asleep. The question was answered in the negative, though, when Sherlock turned his head just enough to make himself more easily understood and said quietly, “I’m sorry about the phone.”

John smiled and ruffled his hair. “It’s all right,” he said kindly. “You’re forgiven. And you won’t have to worry about being tempted again. I’ll take it with me, and you can have it back in the morning.”

“All right,” Sherlock agreed meekly. Then he added with a sigh and just a touch of sulkiness, “I bet Lestrade would be glad that he got me in trouble.”

John couldn’t help chuckling a bit at that. “You got yourself in trouble,” he said, although his tone was fond rather than really scolding. “When I say no, I mean no.”

Sherlock gave a little huff. “I know,” he said wryly. “No one means no when they say it more than you do.”

That drew another chuckle from John, and he leaned down to kiss the top of Sherlock’s head again. “Keep that in mind, then, and you’ll sit much more comfortably.”

Sherlock’s response to that was a gusty, dramatic sigh. He turned his face back into John’s shoulder, mumbling sadly, “I don’t think I’ll ever sit again.”

John didn’t quite roll his eyes, but he thought about it. “Yes, you will,” he assured Sherlock fondly. “I grant you it won’t be comfortable for a few days, but let that be a lesson to you. And I’ll put some more arnica cream on you later. That’ll help it to feel better.”

Sherlock sighed again, but cuddled closer to him even so. His obvious need for comfort after punishment was so endearing that John couldn’t help hugging him tightly in return, carding his fingers through Sherlock’s mop of curls.

“I know it hurts,” he said. “And I know it’s unpleasant being stuck in bed, too. But I’m trying to keep you safe, Sherlock. You need someone to do that.” And if John hadn’t already been sure of that before, today’s debacle would certainly have convinced him of the truth of it.

Sherlock didn’t reply, but he nestled his head just a little into the light pressure of John’s hand. It could have been a silent affirmation or it could have just been a wordless request of ‘don’t stop’, but John decided to take it as both.

“I know,” he murmured. “And it’s all right. I’m going to be here.” He patted Sherlock’s back, then began rubbing that again too. “You just relax now, all right? I’ll look after you.”

Still no reply from Sherlock, but he was relaxing again, his head becoming heavy on John’s shoulder. With the soothing encouragement of back rubbing and hair stroking, this time it wasn’t long before he really was asleep, and after waiting a few more minutes just to make sure, John very carefully extracted himself—again—and slid off the bed.

He made quietly for the door, but stopped when he spotted the tray he’d brought earlier sitting on the bedside table. John eyed the contents of it and sighed to himself. Sherlock’s idea of eating something had been drinking the tea and nibbling one corner off a piece of toast, and leaving the rest untouched. And bugger it, John realised, he still couldn’t order takeaway yet, since he still didn’t know what Sherlock wanted.

Of course, he could just go ahead and order something anyway, but he knew from experience that his chances of getting Sherlock to actually eat any of it were much better if he let Sherlock choose.

Well, fine, they’d just eat late. It wasn’t like they didn’t have meals at all sorts of odd hours anyway, John thought wryly. Besides, he didn’t expect that Sherlock would actually sleep for very long at this point; John could just ask him when he woke up. Better to let him sleep while he could, since even a twenty minute nap would be twenty minutes where Sherlock wasn’t going out of his mind with boredom.

As it turned out, it was a little over half an hour before John heard Sherlock calling him again, although he wasn’t sure how much of that time Sherlock had actually spent sleeping. Sherlock’s plaintive call sounded quite thoroughly dejected, but there was an underlying hopeful note to his tone that suggested John’s presence, when he answered, would be shining a light into his otherwise dreadfully gloomy world.

Because Sherlock wasn’t dramatic at all, John thought wryly, although he couldn’t help the fond smile that crept onto his face as he headed down the hall.

“Hello,” he said as he stepped into Sherlock’s room. “How are you feeling?”

Sherlock had got his pyjama bottoms on again and was back in his diagonal position, sprawled across the bed with his head facing towards the door. He propped himself up on his elbows as John came in and looked up at him woefully.

“Sore,” he said, pointing forlorn grey eyes at John to back up the claim. “Can I have tea?”

“Of course you can have tea,” John said. “And you can have takeaway to go with it, too, as soon as you’ve decided what you want.”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. “I’m not hungry.”

“You need to eat,” John told him, more firmly. “If you really don’t want takeaway, you’ve still got sandwiches there. But you are going to have something.”

John was quite determined on this point. He was going to get something more into Sherlock today than just tea and a corner of a piece of toast, because the way he starved himself was just bloody unhealthy, and John wouldn’t be much of a caretaker if he kept letting him get away with it.

Sherlock opened his mouth again, hesitated, then seemed to think better of what he was about to say and just sighed instead. “Chinese is fine,” he said. “I don’t care which.” A pause, then he added with apparent reluctance, “Dumplings.”

“Good. Thank you,” John said, relieved that it hadn’t turned into a battle. “Back in a few, then.”

He headed back down to the kitchen and dug around in their selection of takeaway menus until he found the one he wanted, namely the closest Chinese place that did dumplings Sherlock would eat and reasonably fast deliveries. A quick phone call took care of dinner—and thank God for that, his stomach was saying—and John turned his attention to making tea, which he then duly delivered to Sherlock, along with the promise of dinner being on its way.

The delivery turned out to be remarkably quick, especially for a Saturday night, and it wasn’t all that long before John had another tray ready for Sherlock, this one bearing the requested dumplings, a glass of water and another cup of tea. The dumplings certainly smelled good to John, so he was hoping that Sherlock might be tempted to eat at least some of them.

Sherlock was still stretched across the bed when John came back in, but he dutifully wriggled backwards to make room for the tray. “Thank you,” he said, managing to make it sound absolutely sorrowful. He picked up the tea and took a sip, appearing totally uninterested in the food.

“You’re welcome,” John said. “I’ll come back and get the trays a bit later. Eat something, all right? Dumplings or sandwiches, I don’t care which, but I want to see something gone when I come back.”

Sherlock sighed in a martyred fashion, as if this requirement was just yet another torment being heaped upon his sorely tormented self, but nodded in reluctant obedience.

Hoping that he might actually do it, John turned to head back to the kitchen and his own waiting dinner. Sherlock watched him go with a distinctly forlorn expression, and despite knowing that Sherlock was being typically dramatic about the whole thing, John still found himself having to harden his heart to those sad grey eyes, so that he didn’t find himself offering to stay and keep Sherlock company for a bit. He knew damn well that it would defeat the whole purpose of sending Sherlock to bed as a punishment if he stayed in there with him to entertain him the whole time. It was just that Sherlock could manage to look so heartbreakingly _sad_ about it.

Walking back down to the kitchen, John mentally scolded himself about not being a pushover, and reminded himself again of exactly what Sherlock had done to earn this punishment. Sherlock would have looked a damn sight worse than heartbreakingly sad if he’d managed to fall off that bloody bus into traffic, or got himself stabbed by a drugged up murderer. Yes, John was being hard on him, but really, being sent to bed with a sore bottom was no more than he deserved after today’s debacle.

With that in mind, John managed to shore up his disciplinary intentions again and leave Sherlock alone for a few hours, while he ate dinner, watched some more telly, surfed the internet for a while and then finally cleaned up the kitchen. By that time he’d finished all that, he was starting to feel like he could really do with going to bed himself, because it was late and frankly he’d had a hell of a day.

He’d get Sherlock properly settled first though, give him a chance to wash up and then put some more arnica cream on his bottom. He wanted Sherlock to be able to sleep tonight if at all possible, and the odds of that, while slim, would surely be better if Sherlock didn’t spend the night tossing and turning in discomfort.

He hadn’t heard so much as a peep from Sherlock’s room since he’d taken dinner in to him, but somehow John doubted very much that he was asleep yet. More likely he was just sulking in misery at having been sent to bed and abandoned there. Still, at least he’d been quiet about it. John wasn’t going to begrudge him a bit of sulking during punishment, so long as he behaved himself and did as he was told.

When he tapped on Sherlock’s door and stuck his head in, though, he found himself rolling his eyes and fighting back a smile, because apparently Sherlock was doing a lot more than just a bit of sulking. He was laid out on the bed as if he’d been the victim of a face down crucifixion, his arms spread wide and his face firmly buried in between the pillows, the very picture of early bedtime despair. John might have suspected that Sherlock had done it just for his benefit when he heard him coming, but knowing Sherlock, it was just as likely that he’d been that way for hours.

“You alive in there?” John asked as he moved closer to the bed, unable to keep the fondness out of his tone. Sherlock’s dramatics could be tiresome at times, but there was something very endearing about them all the same.

“No,” came the muffled reply, and John chuckled.

“Well, that’s too bad,” he said mildly. “Because if you were still alive, I was going to give you a little reprieve to go up and get ready for bed.”

Sherlock’s head came up at that, proving that he was, in fact, still among the living. “I’m already in bed,” he pointed out sulkily.

“True, but I’m sure you wouldn’t mind having the chance to wash up and brush your teeth and have a quick shower, would you?” John said, deciding to ignore the sullen tone. “I want you to get some sleep tonight if you can, so I’d rather you were as comfortable as possible.”

Sherlock pulled his arms in and propped himself up on his elbows, peering up at John. “I can get up? Really?” he asked, a sudden, hopeful light appearing in his eyes.

“Don’t get carried away,” John told him. “You’re still on bedtime punishment. But you can have twenty minutes to go and brush your teeth, have a quick shower if you want and get yourself properly ready for bed. When you come back I’ll put some more arnica cream on those stripes. That should help you to be more comfortable tonight.”

Sherlock was already wriggling himself backwards off the bed, looking as relieved as if John had just let him out of prison. The relief gave way to a wince as he straightened up, though, and he put a hand back to rub very gingerly at his bottom. His eyes found John’s, his expression suddenly tragic and terribly forlorn.

“You deserved everything you got,” John said firmly. Then he added in a more gentle tone, “I know it still hurts, but the arnica will help.”

Sherlock sighed, but nodded. He looked a bit pale and wan now that his excitement had worn off, and John frowned. “Did you eat anything?”

“I had a dumpling,” Sherlock said quietly.

A dumpling, as in one. John’s brow creased in concern. “Nothing else?”

“I’m not hungry,” Sherlock replied. His voice was edging close to a whine now, and John sighed. He didn’t want to get Sherlock worked up, not when he was hoping to do the exact opposite and have him settled quietly into bed, but he really had to find a way of convincing him to eat more. The way Sherlock skipped meals—sometimes for days on end—just wasn’t healthy.

“All right,” he said, deciding to let it go, for now at least. “But you’re having a decent breakfast in the morning, do you understand me?”

Sherlock nodded, avoiding his eyes. “Can I go and have a shower now?”

“Yes, all right,” John agreed. “Twenty minutes, remember. Don’t make me come looking for you.”

Sherlock nodded again and hastily made for the door. John heard him padding down the hall and glanced at the clock on Sherlock’s bedside table, making a note of the time. He really hoped it wouldn’t come down to him having to go and retrieve Sherlock from the bathroom, but with Sherlock you never knew when the fits of rebellion might suddenly come, and John was quite prepared to go and fetch him back to bed if he had to. He was giving Sherlock this time out of bed in the hope that it would help him sleep better, but Sherlock had better not abuse the privilege if he knew what was good for him.

To pass the time until Sherlock came back, John straightened up the bedcovers and then gathered up the trays, which Sherlock had deposited on the floor on the far side of the bed. John frowned to see that Sherlock’s claim of having eaten a dumpling translated in reality to having nibbled the end off one and then ignoring the rest. Christ, no wonder Sherlock was looking a bit pale, running on that little food.

He’d be having a decent breakfast tomorrow, though, John promised himself rather grimly. Even if he had to force toast down Sherlock’s throat, the daft lunatic was going to eat something.

He took the mostly untouched trays back to the kitchen and stacked everything up on the bench, to be dealt with tomorrow. He filled a glass with water, in case Sherlock got thirsty in the night, then after a moment of thought he filled a second glass with orange juice. Sherlock might be refusing to eat, but maybe John could still get some calories into him in liquid form, at least.

He took both glasses back down to Sherlock’s bedroom with him and made space for them on the bedside table. Then he retrieved the arnica cream from where he’d left it earlier, and sat down on the bed to wait. According to the clock, Sherlock had five minutes left of the twenty John had given him. John really, really hoped that Sherlock would come back of his own accord inside those five minutes.

When there were only two minutes left of the allotted time, John had begun to eye the clock with some concern. And a minute after that—with only one minute left to go—he was just starting to wonder if he should allow any leeway at all, or if he should be banging on the bathroom door with hairbrush in hand at exactly twenty minutes and one second, when he heard the soft pad of Sherlock’s footsteps coming back down the hall.

Breathing a quiet sigh of relief, John relaxed and waited for Sherlock to actually appear, which he did a moment later. His hair was tousled into a wild mess from being towelled dry, and his face was flushed. His eyes went wary when he saw John sitting on the bed.

“I’m not late,” he said cautiously.

“No, you’re not,” John reassured him. “Well done.” He patted the bed beside him and gave Sherlock a fond look. “Come on then. Let’s see if we can’t make those stripes feel a bit better before you go to sleep.”

Sherlock gave him a dubious look, although John wasn’t sure if it was in response to the possibility of making his cane welts feel better, or the notion that he might actually go to sleep, or both. Whichever one it was, Sherlock nevertheless climbed willingly enough onto the bed and set about carefully easing his pyjama bottoms down. Once he had them at his knees he lowered himself down and stretched out, again pulling a pillow close so that he could hug it. Since Sherlock couldn’t see him, John let himself smile. He wasn’t about to comment on it, but the pillow thing really was seriously endearing.

The smile turned into a wince as he turned his attention to Sherlock’s bottom. Even though it had been hours since the caning, those welts still looked awfully sore. John knew logically that Sherlock had deserved every bit of it, but he couldn’t help feeling sympathetic even so.

But Sherlock _had_ deserved every bit of it, he reminded himself firmly. John would gladly do the doctoring now that the caning was over, but if Sherlock was uncomfortable sitting down for a few days, then it was his own fault. It wasn’t going to make him very happy tomorrow, not with what John had planned for him, but that was also his own fault. Sherlock’s safety—Sherlock’s _life_ —was more important, and John needed to impress upon him that taking risks like that was simply not acceptable.

He popped the lid off the arnica cream and scooped some out, then began gently applying it to all the parts that were likely to need it. He worked on the cane welts first, taking care to keep his touch very light, then did the areas in between just for good measure. Lastly he moved down to Sherlock’s thighs, smoothing cream into first one and then the other. Sherlock’s thighs didn’t look anything like as sore as his bottom—the pink flush from the smacking John had given him had all but disappeared—but John would bet that the skin there was still tender, so there was no harm in a bit of soothing.

And it certainly seemed to be soothing, judging by the way Sherlock was relaxing under his touch. By the time John was finished Sherlock had gone almost limp, his eyes closed and his breathing slow and regular. In fact, he looked so relaxed that John wasn’t sure if he was even still awake or if he’d dropped off somewhere in the middle.

“Sherlock?” he asked in a low voice, not wanting to wake Sherlock if he had actually fallen asleep.

But Sherlock hadn’t, at least not completely. “Hmm?” came the faint reply.

John put a hand on the small of his back, rubbing it gently. “All done. Feel a bit better?”

“Hmm,” Sherlock said again. This time it came without the rising inflection on the end to make it a question, so John took it as an affirmation.

“Good,” he said. “Need help getting your pyjamas back up?”

Sherlock shook his head, extracted his arms from around his pillow and sleepily put them back behind him. He managed to catch hold of his pyjama bottoms and began wriggling them back up, all without opening his eyes. John had to bite back a grin as he watched the performance. For one thing it was damn cute, and for another, he somehow knew that Sherlock would never have done such a thing in front of anyone else. John was the exception, and it felt good to know that he was trusted so deeply.

Unfortunately for Sherlock though, he was drowsy enough that he couldn’t be quite as careful with getting his pyjamas up as he might have liked, and when the material scraped over his bottom his face screwed up in sleepy discomfort. His eyes opened, just a crack, and two mournful slivers of grey iris fixed themselves on John. He looked so sorrowful that John had to smile, albeit with sympathy.

“I know,” he said, putting a hand between Sherlock’s shoulder blades. “I know it’s sore.” He patted those bony shoulders, then began to gently rub as he asked, “Would you like a bit more cuddle time?” Sherlock might still be on punishment, but John wasn’t about to stint him on the comforting, even if he hadn’t just been spanked right then.

Sherlock’s eyes opened a bit more at that, and he nodded, still looking woeful. John gave his shoulders another pat.

“Come on, then,” he said. “Into bed with you.” He tugged on the covers, trying to encourage Sherlock to move enough that he could get underneath them. It took a little manoeuvring, but before too long he had Sherlock tucked up in bed. John climbed in beside him, holding an arm out in invitation, and Sherlock promptly wriggled close and pressed his face into John’s shoulder, his arm coming across to wrap around John’s waist.

He didn’t hesitate to do that now, to hold onto John in return when he was being cuddled, which John thought was a very good thing. He remembered that first tentative time, when Sherlock had very hesitantly put an arm around him—and before that, the very first spanking, when Sherlock hadn’t even seemed to know what to do with being hugged, despite obviously wanting it. The change was good, John thought. The change said trust, just like so many other little things said trust. Sherlock trusted him to do this, to look after him, and that was good. That felt right.

He wrapped his arms tightly around Sherlock in return, hugging him close and running gentle fingers through his messy curls. “I know it hurts,” he murmured, half crooning it. “I know it’s awfully sore, but it’ll be better soon, and you’ll have learned a good lesson from it. I’m here to look after you, Sherlock. And I won’t let you do dangerous things like that anymore, so you’ll just have to get used to it.”

Sherlock’s only reply was to snuggle closer to him, making a contented little sound as John caressed his hair. John obligingly kept doing it, although when he spoke again he made his tone a little firmer. Sherlock seemed to be on the verge of falling asleep, and John wanted to go over the rules again before he went upstairs to bed and left Sherlock to it.

“When I go up to bed, remember that you’re still on punishment,” he said. “Same rules apply for tonight. You stay in bed unless you need the loo. I’ve put some water and some orange juice by your bed in case you get thirsty. In the morning, the bedtime part of your punishment will be over. All right?”

Sherlock murmured a wordless, muffled reply into John’s shoulder, and John gave his back a brisk little rub to get his attention. “Sherlock, do you understand me?”

“Hmm … okay,” Sherlock mumbled. A moment later he pressed up a bit into John’s hand on his back and added hopefully, “Could you do that more?”

John smiled at that, unable to help himself. Apparently Sherlock was far more concerned with the comfort he could get from cuddle time than he was with the rules. But then, John had made it clear to him already what the rules were and when his punishment would be over. Going over them again now had just been an extra precaution, really.

“Yes, I can do that more,” he said fondly. “You just relax now and go to sleep. You’ve had a long day.”

Sherlock murmured something that John didn’t catch, sounding half-asleep already. John kept up the back rubbing and the hair stroking, and ten minutes later Sherlock was deadweight on his shoulder, his arm lying limply across John’s waist, his breathing deep and regular.

It probably wouldn’t last—Sherlock tended to nap rather than sleep for long periods of time, even with cuddle time to help him drop off—but for now at least, he was out for the count.

John had thought to stay another five minutes or so just to make sure, but lying down in a warm bed while he was tired himself was making it hard to keep his eyes open, and he thought he’d better get upstairs to his own bed before he ended up staying the night in Sherlock’s. As carefully as he could, he wriggled out from underneath Sherlock’s sleeping form and slid off the bed.

Deprived of John’s shoulder, Sherlock made a protesting sound, although he didn’t appear to have actually woken up. Half-tempted to just get back into bed with him, John slid a pillow down beside Sherlock to act as a stand in. Apparently that was acceptable, since Sherlock immediately curled up around it.

John made sure that Sherlock was warmly covered up, then tiptoed out the door and pulled it mostly closed behind him. He then gratefully headed upstairs, turning lights off as he went. By the time he climbed into his own bed, he was just about asleep on his feet. And once his head actually hit the pillow, he was fully asleep in a matter of minutes.

Unfortunately, he didn’t stay that way.

When he woke some hours later, he was just groggy and confused at first. It was very dark, not even a hint of daylight coming through his curtains, and he really didn’t know why he was awake at very dark o’clock in the morning. A check of his bedside clock told him that very dark o’clock was in fact two a.m., and John stared at the numbers in hazy puzzlement. It wasn’t unusual for him to wake at strange hours with nightmares, but on this occasion he had no memory of having had one, nor the usual adrenaline surge that came with waking up from one. So what had woken him up at such a hideous hour?

He lay pondering this for several minutes, hoping that he might go back to sleep and thus not have to worry about it. Unfortunately, the act of pondering seemed to be waking him up even more rather than helping him fall asleep again, and by the time he realised this it was too late and he was just annoyingly awake. And annoyingly awake quickly became the kind of awake he’d got all too used to in those lonely days when he was first back home. Even without the nightmare, it was the kind of post-nightmare awake that only a cup of tea and some biscuits would settle, at least if anything could.

If only the tea and biscuits weren’t all the way downstairs, he thought ruefully, as he gave in and got reluctantly out of bed. And that’s if they even had any biscuits. Well, at least he knew they definitely had tea.

John’s thoughts were largely on tea and biscuits as he padded down the stairs, and so it wasn’t until he stepped off onto the landing and was halfway to the door that he realised there was a light on somewhere beyond it. He frowned, puzzled. He’d turned the lights off when he went to bed, he was sure of it. Unless Sherlock had got up and turned them on again for some reason …

And with that thought, John was abruptly much more awake, and was thinking much less about tea and biscuits and much more about his sudden rather grim suspicion about just why the light might be on.

He deliberately lightened his steps, but didn’t pause, pushing the door open and going straight in and around the corner, where he had the full view of the kitchen. And sure enough, just as he had unhappily suspected—there was Sherlock, who should have been in bed but was most decidedly _not_.

Sherlock was bent over his microscope, examining something on a slide, but his head came up sharply when he heard John’s footsteps. His eyes went very wide, and the look on his face said very clearly that he was well and truly caught and he knew it.

And he was caught, all right, John thought grimly. He was absolutely bloody _sprung_ , and he might know it now but he was going to know it a hell of a lot better by the time John was done with him.

Sherlock opened his mouth, no doubt intending to offer some explanation or excuse for his being decidedly _not in bed_ , but this time John wasn’t having a bar of it. He advanced on Sherlock like a pyjama-clad avenging angel, his face set with determination. Sherlock’s eyes went even wider in alarm as John approached, and he hastily stepped away from the table, looking like he intended to retreat in a hurry.

Too late, though. John was on him in a few quick strides, spinning him around and planting a scalding smack across the seat of Sherlock’s pyjamas. He made no allowances for the stripes that he knew decorated the bottom under those pyjamas, and Sherlock jumped and yelped in pained surprise as the smack connected.

John still didn’t let him get a word in, though. “Go to your room,” he ground out, and smacked Sherlock again, eliciting another yelp. “Go to your room _right now_.”

The last word came with a matching smack, this one propelling Sherlock forward as John let go of his elbow. Freed, Sherlock wasted no time in scrambling for the door that led down to his room, casting a wounded look over his shoulder as he went.

John ignored the look and followed right on Sherlock’s heels, getting in another good smack as Sherlock made it to the door. Sherlock gave another startled yip and quickened his pace, his steps becoming a scurry as he hastily fled down the hall.

John paused in the doorway, gave himself a moment to take a deep, fortifying breath, and then followed him.

By the time he reached Sherlock’s room, Sherlock had retreated straight to the far side of it, and had turned to put his bottom safely towards the wall. He was rubbing it gingerly with both hands, pouting impressively, and when John came in Sherlock turned the pout straight in his direction, looking at him with wide, wounded eyes.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he began half-indignantly, but John cut him off sharply before he could say any more.

“Yes, I did,” he snapped. “You disobeyed, you know the consequences, and that’s hardly the end of it. How long have you been out of bed?”

Sherlock hesitated. “Not long …”

“How long?” John repeated, making his voice very stern. “The truth, Sherlock.”

“I only got up when it was morning!” Sherlock burst out, indignant again. “You _said_ I could get up in the morning!”

Oh, bloody hell, John thought, realisation hitting him. He never had specified an actual time, had he? No, damn it all, he hadn’t. He’d just said ‘in the morning’, without even thinking about it. He’d meant morning as in ‘a reasonable hour for normal people to get out of bed’, and possibly even ‘the time that he got out of bed and gave permission for Sherlock to do the same’, but he hadn’t _said_ that. And Sherlock, cheeky sod that he was, had apparently eagerly latched onto the literary loophole.

“So let me guess,” John said evenly. “As soon as it hit midnight, you decided that meant morning and got up.”

Sherlock hesitated again, eyeing him warily. “It was after midnight …” he offered after a moment, sounding more conciliatory this time. Apparently he’d reconsidered righteous indignation as a strategy.

“How long after midnight?” John demanded, already suspecting what the answer would be.

Sherlock’s gaze dropped, and he toed uncomfortably at the floor. “About two minutes.”

Which was more or less exactly what John had been expecting.

He could admit that it was partly his own fault, for not being more specific in his instructions. He should have known that Sherlock would take any possible wiggle room John gave him and twist it to his advantage. By saying ‘morning’ rather than giving him a definitive time, John had practically handed him a loophole on a plate. He really should have known better than that, he thought ruefully. He’d give himself the partial excuse that Sherlock’s bus adventure and the punishment that followed had made for a bloody tiring day, but that was it, lesson learned. He wasn’t going to make that mistake twice.

But while it might be partly his own fault for giving Sherlock a loophole to exploit, that didn’t mean John could just let him get away with blatant disobedience while he was being punished. Sherlock, the deductive genius, would have known very well what John meant by ‘morning’, even if he hadn’t been specific about it. He’d decided to conveniently take ‘morning’ to mean ‘anything after midnight’ because it suited him to do it. And the look on his face when John had first walked in certainly hadn’t been the look of someone who innocently thought they were doing no wrong.

No, John thought, Sherlock had known very well that he’d be in trouble for this if he got caught. He’d done it anyway—although whether he’d actually thought to get away with it, John wasn’t sure. Sherlock had certainly done enough deliberate boundary pushing since their arrangement had been in place that this could well be more of the same, although John really would have thought he’d have had enough after that caning.

But then again, he’d also had occasion to suspect that Sherlock’s boundary pushing was partly a result of him feeling insecure, so perhaps it wasn’t so unreasonable after all. The caning had been damn hard on both of them, after all. Perhaps Sherlock had wanted to push for just a bit more attention, a bit more confirmation of John’s commitment to him, perhaps even to reassure himself that the caning hadn’t changed anything.

Of course, it was also entirely possible that Sherlock just hadn’t wanted to stay in bed, and had seen an opportunity to escape his punishment while John was safely asleep upstairs. And ultimately, it didn’t really matter which one it was when it came to what had to happen next. Sherlock had known he’d be in trouble if he got caught, and he had got caught, and now he’d be expecting consequences. He might not want them, but he would be expecting them, and it was therefore up to John to provide them.

And provide them he would. Giving Sherlock a deliberately stern look, John pointed a firm finger towards the corner.

“Corner time,” he said. “Fifteen minutes. Then we’ll see about your punishment for disobeying me. And don’t you even _think_ about saying that you didn’t disobey me!” he added sharply, as Sherlock opened his mouth to protest. “You decided to take what I said literally because it suited you, but you knew very well what I meant.” He indicated the corner again. “Corner time, Sherlock, right now.”

His tone and the look on his face seemed to convince Sherlock that arguing wouldn’t be a good idea, and with a last wide-eyed look at John, he turned and hurried to the corner. He pointed his nose at the wall and clasped his hands behind his back, shifting his feet for a few moments until a sharp command from John to keep still had him hastily freezing in place.

With Sherlock safely in the corner, John sank down onto Sherlock’s bed, where he could keep an eye on him, and considered what to do.

Sherlock had earned himself a punishment for disobedience, there was no question about that. John had made it clear from the beginning that disobeying during a punishment would earn Sherlock extra, and sneaking out of bed when he’d been told to stay in it was well up there on the scale of disobedience, whether Sherlock had been doing it with an eye towards getting caught or not. There was no way John could let him get away with that—and it would be especially important that he provide the expected response if Sherlock really had done it as deliberate boundary pushing.

At the same time, though, John really didn’t like the idea of being too hard on him, not when Sherlock had been caned so recently and would still be so very sore. Not to mention, this _was_ partly his own fault. Yes, Sherlock had known he was disobeying, but John was the one who’d given him the opportunity of a loophole. It didn’t seem fair for him to come down on Sherlock like a ton of bricks when he himself had contributed to the disobedience, however unintentionally.

All right, then, John thought. He’d find the middle ground. A punishment, yes, but nothing too severe. He wouldn’t smack Sherlock’s bottom again, not on top of those cane stripes—from the way Sherlock had yelped when John had smacked him in the kitchen, that had been seriously sore, even over his pyjamas. John could still make an effective point without being quite that harsh.

Perhaps if he just handed out the same sort of penalty as he had for Sherlock illicitly using his phone, only with a bit more emphasis this time. If he put Sherlock over his knee as if for a proper spanking, and used the hairbrush instead of just his hand, that could make a damn good point about disobedience while still keeping the actual punishment on the milder side.

Right, he thought decisively. That would work. Over his knee and the hairbrush it was. And Sherlock would be making up the time he’d spent out of bed, too. He’d been up for two hours, near enough, so that would be two extra hours in bed in the morning. See if that taught him a lesson about disobedience while he was being punished.

Thus decided, John watched Sherlock through the rest of his corner time, quite prepared to step in with a scolding or an extra smack or two if Sherlock decided to act up or get too fidgety. As it was, though, Sherlock was very well-behaved, perhaps not willing to risk getting into any more trouble than he already had. He kept his nose firmly in the corner and his hands clasped behind his back, and his feet didn’t so much as twitch off the floor. He might as well have been a pyjama-clad statue at times, he was so still.

Really, John thought wryly, it was too bad Sherlock couldn’t have decided to be that cooperative a bit earlier.

When the fifteen minutes were up, he got to his feet, took the hairbrush from its place on Sherlock’s chest of drawers and put it down on the bed. Then he called Sherlock out of the corner with a stern, “Time’s up. Come here, Sherlock.”

Sherlock turned warily around to face him, and obediently took a couple of steps in John’s direction, only to stop in his tracks when he caught sight of the hairbrush lying on the bed. His expression instantly turned pleading, grey eyes wide with earnest appeal.

“Couldn’t I just go back to bed?” he asked. “I won’t get up again until you give me permission, I promise. You don’t have to spank me.”

“Yes, I do,” John replied firmly. “Disobeying me when you’re being punished earns you extra. We’ve already been over that. And you knew you were disobeying me when you got up, didn’t you?”

Sherlock hesitated, as if considering what to say. Looking just a bit hopeful, he offered tentatively, “You _did_ say I could get up in the morning …”

“Yes, I did,” John agreed, not surprised that Sherlock was trying that argument again—albeit with much less cheek this time. “That was my mistake, and from now on I’ll be more specific with my instructions. But you knew very well what I meant, didn’t you?”

He knew Sherlock had, and he also knew the question would put Sherlock in an uncomfortable position. Attempting to deny that he’d known what John meant would not only mean lying, it would also mean Sherlock would have to admit (however falsely) to not knowing John’s intentions and thus being wrong—something Sherlock truly despised being. On the other hand, though, admitting that he had known what John meant would be admitting disobedience, which was tantamount to asking for extra punishment.

Sherlock was silent for a long moment, as if considering his options—the rock, or the hard place—but finally he sighed in resignation and nodded, letting his gaze drop to the floor. “Yes,” he admitted.

“Yes,” John said sternly, although he was pleased that Sherlock had decided to take the honest route. “And you got up anyway, which is why you’re going to be punished. Now come here.”

Sherlock heaved another forlorn sigh, but came reluctantly forward. John took a seat on the edge of the bed, making sure he was in the middle so that Sherlock could stretch out on either side, and patted his thigh expectantly. “Pyjamas down and over my knee, Sherlock.”

Looking miserably resigned, Sherlock eased his pyjama bottoms carefully down over his hips and let them fall. They dropped into a puddle of fabric around his ankles, but he managed to keep them from coming off completely as he knelt on the bed, so they stayed tangled around his feet. He lowered himself down to lie across John’s lap, squirming forward a bit so that his bottom was propped up directly over John’s left thigh. Their arrangement had only been in place for a few weeks, but it was already becoming a familiar pose.

John, meanwhile, took up his own expected position, resting his free hand in the small of Sherlock’s back, as both reassurance and mild restraint. Sherlock was actually very good at staying obediently in place during spankings, but he would start to squirm and shift about if he got sore enough. He also had a tendency to kick, although that tended to be more just drumming his feet on the mattress, and not usually enough to actually shift him out of position. John had made sure to reassure him that he could kick as much as he wanted to, thinking that since Sherlock tried so desperately to stay silent during punishments—despite John also assuring him that he didn’t have to be quiet—it would probably be good for him to have some way of expressing his discomfort.

For now, though, Sherlock was entirely still, lying obediently bottom up. John took a moment to check the stripes that adorned that bottom, wincing a bit at how sore they still looked. There were also a few hand-sized marks from the smacks he’d given Sherlock in the kitchen, forming a patchy pink background to the stripes from the cane. No wonder poor Sherlock had yelped, those must have really stung, and John was glad he’d already decided to target Sherlock’s thighs instead for this punishment. That would sting too, of course, but not nearly as much as it would on his bottom right now.

As a bit of reassurance on that point, John patted Sherlock’s back gently with his free hand. “Come over a bit more,” he said. “I’m not going to smack your bottom, not on top of those stripes.”

Sherlock gave a relieved sounding sigh and wriggled forward a bit more, so that his bottom was propped up over John’s other leg and his thighs were in the prime target area instead. The news that he wasn’t getting smacked over his stripes seemed to have made him bolder, because he turned to pout at John over his shoulder and said sulkily, “They didn’t stop you from smacking it before.”

“You shouldn’t have been out of bed and you know it,” John said firmly, although he gave Sherlock’s back another comforting pat. “But I’m not going to smack it any more. You’ll get it here instead.” He patted Sherlock’s thighs this time, and the fact that he was patting with the hairbrush made it very much a warning. Sherlock gulped and quickly turned to face forward again, grabbing a pillow from the head of the bed and wrapping his arms tightly around it.

“All right,” John said, since Sherlock seemed to be indicating he was ready to proceed. “Let’s get this over with. Do you understand why I’m going to punish you?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said forlornly. “I disobeyed you.” He clutched the pillow a little tighter and bowed his head down onto it.

“Yes, you did,” John agreed. “Where did I tell you to stay?”

“In bed,” Sherlock dutifully replied, his voice now somewhat muffled by the pillow.

“And what did you do?”

Sherlock sighed, his shoulders heaving up and then down in unhappy resignation. “I got out of bed.”

“Correct,” John told him. “You were already being punished, and now you’ve earned yourself extra for disobedience. And since you seem to need things put to you in specifics, I’ll go over it now, while I can be sure that you’re listening to me.” He tapped the brush on Sherlock’s thighs again for emphasis, and Sherlock nodded earnestly into the pillow, to assure John that he was indeed listening.

Satisfied, John went on, his tone leaving absolutely no room for argument. “I’m going to spank you for disobeying me. After your spanking, you will be going back to bed for the rest of the night. You would have been allowed to get up at eight a.m. tomorrow. However, since you chose to spend two hours out of bed, it will now be ten a.m. tomorrow. You are still allowed to get up to use the loo, but apart from that, your feet do not touch the floor until I say they can. Do you understand me?”

Sherlock nodded into his pillow again, and John gave him another tap with the hairbrush, a bit more firmly this time. “Answer me. Do you understand?”

Sherlock’s head came up a bit at the firmer tap, and he hastily replied out loud, “Yes, I understand.”

“Good. Then I’m sorry I have to do this, but I’m afraid you’ve earned it.”

This was all sounding a lot more severe than John really intended to be, but then that was the whole point. He’d much prefer that the emphasis in this punishment come from putting Sherlock over his knee and scolding him, rather than actually punishing him harder when he was already so sore.

He pressed down a little more firmly on Sherlock’s back, and gave a last, warning tap with the hairbrush. “All right, here we go.”

Sherlock tensed under John's hand, sucked in his breath hard and ducked his face down into his pillow, clutching it even more tightly. John eyeballed his target a final time, took aim and brought the hairbrush down once and then twice, not hard but sharply, planting a smart smack to the very top of each thigh. Since those two spots were the same ones that had got all the smacks during Sherlock’s earlier punishment for using his phone, it probably wasn’t surprising that Sherlock jumped hard and let out a muffled gasp.

“I told you to stay in bed,” John scolded firmly, as he raised the brush again. “When you are sent to bed as a punishment, that is where you stay.”

He brought the hairbrush down again, in the same quick one-two rhythm, layering a second pair of smacks right on top of the first. Sherlock flinched with each smack and gave another, louder gasp, easily audible even through the pillow he was clutching.

“You do not get out of bed just because you think I won’t find out,” John went on in the same stern tone. He followed that up with a third pair of smacks, still on those same two, now bright pink, spots at the tops of Sherlock’s thighs. There had been no visible trace of Sherlock’s earlier punishment when John started this one, but the colour was certainly refreshing fast.

He still wasn’t spanking especially hard, but the cumulative effect was obviously being felt, at least if Sherlock’s reaction was any indication. He jerked sharply over John’s lap, twisting his hips a little, and one foot kicked hard against the mattress before he managed to force it still again. It took visible effort for him to do it—his foot kept twitching up again afterwards—and John left off the scolding for a moment to offer some brief reassurance.

“It’s okay,” he said. “You can kick as much as you want to. I don’t mind at all, remember, so you just go ahead.”

Sherlock didn’t reply, but when John brought the hairbrush down again, once and then twice on those same two punished spots, he whined plaintively into the pillow and beat out a frantic little tattoo with both feet, no longer looking like he was trying to restrain himself. In fact he kept up the kicking for several moments before subsiding into scrabbling at the covers with his toes, alternately curling them and digging them into the duvet, as if keeping his feet moving could somehow alleviate the sting higher up.

John gave Sherlock’s back a quick rub of approval, but deliberately firmed his voice again as he returned to his scolding, wanting to make sure the point was made with these last few smacks.

“Disobeying me when you’re being punished earns you extra,” he said. “When you’re being punished, Sherlock Holmes, you _do_ as you’re _told_.”

The emphasised words came with two matching smacks, a little lower on Sherlock’s thighs this time, although judging by Sherlock’s reaction they were no less sore for that minor bit of mercy. He jumped hard on the first and gasped loudly on the second, drumming his feet on the mattress again in obvious distress.

But it was almost over now. John had only intended to give him a dozen, and that meant two more and he could call it finished. He was pretty sure he’d made his point well enough about disobedience—Sherlock was already reacting more strongly than usual for what was actually a fairly mild punishment—and John really didn’t want to be any harsher than this, not when Sherlock was already so sore. Not to mention, his plans for the final phase of Sherlock’s punishment would involve Sherlock having to sit down tomorrow, and that was going to be difficult enough as it was without making it completely impossible for him.

“Two more,” he said, managing with an effort to keep his tone firm. “And then we’re finished. Deep breath.”

He heard Sherlock obediently take a breath—somehow managing to do it through the pillow—and felt him tense as he braced himself. Relieved to be at the end of it, John brought the hairbrush down twice more, a little lower again this time, painting another pair of bright pink ovals onto Sherlock’s pale thighs. Even braced as he was, Sherlock flinched with each smack and instantly began drumming his feet on the bed again, gasping into his pillow and wriggling over John’s lap with considerably more energy than before, as if the spanking being pronounced over had also been permission for him to stop trying to hold himself still.

But it was over now, which meant that John could give in to his urge to offer comfort. He dropped the hairbrush onto the bed beside him, dropping his stern demeanour with it, and began to rub the small of Sherlock’s back, trying to help ease him through the lingering discomfort.

“All right,” he soothed. “It’s all over now. There we go, all over. All finished, and now it’s cuddle time.”

Sherlock’s squirming was already becoming less frantic, but his feet were still shifting restlessly, scrabbling at the duvet and going into little toe-curling jerks of motion. He also still had the pillow clutched tightly to his face and didn’t seem at all inclined to move. In fact, as the tension began to ease out of him now that the spanking was over, he seemed even less inclined to move, remaining firmly draped over John’s lap like a gangly blanket.

Luckily this was something John had learnt to work around, so he did the moving instead. It was a bit awkward, but he managed to carefully wriggle out from under Sherlock, and then scooted backwards so that he could lie down beside him. He tugged gently but firmly on the pillow Sherlock was clutching, trying to extract it from Sherlock’s stranglehold grip on it.

“Come on, Sherlock, you don’t need that,” he encouraged. “You’ve got me to hug now. Come on, that’s right, out you come.”

Between the words and John tugging on it, it wasn’t long before Sherlock was persuaded to let go of the pillow, and John wasted no time in pulling him in for a hug. Although he didn’t really need to do much pulling, since as soon as Sherlock relinquished the pillow he latched on to John instead. His head went straight onto John’s shoulder and he buried his face there, squirming closer and wrapping his arm around John’s waist to cling to him.

John hugged him tightly in return, his hands falling to their familiar positions, one on Sherlock’s back, the other carding gently through his hair.

“That’s right,” he murmured. “You just hang on to me. As tight as you like. I’m right here, and it’s all over, and you were very brave. You just hold on to me now, and you’ll feel better soon.”

The words seemed to come instinctively, soft, soothing words of comfort and praise and reassurance. It was funny, really—just a few weeks ago John would never have dreamed that Sherlock would allow anyone to talk to him like that. But Sherlock didn’t just allow this; he seemed to genuinely like it, even to need it in his distress after being punished. The juvenile tone didn’t seem to bother him at all. He would just snuggle close to John and let himself be comforted.

He wouldn’t have accepted it from anyone else, though. Sherlock didn’t have to tell him that for John to know it was true. He’d let John do it—he’d let John scold him and discipline him and comfort him afterwards—but no one else. Despite the fact that John really didn’t enjoy having to punish Sherlock, it was still a very good feeling to know that he was so trusted by this extraordinary man.

Smiling a little at the thought, he ran his fingers lightly through Sherlock’s curls, his other hand still rubbing gently between his shoulder blades. “You were very brave,” he said again, and ducked his head to press a kiss into Sherlock’s mop of hair. “And it’s all finished and forgiven now. And I’m right here, and I’m not going anywhere. You just hold on to me for as long as you like.”

Sherlock seemed quite willing to do just that. His fingers had locked themselves tightly around a fold of John's pyjama top, and his face remained determinedly buried in John’s shoulder. John didn’t think he was actually crying, but he was definitely sniffling a bit, and there was an unsteady little hitch to his breathing that said he might be at least on the verge of tears. John hadn’t actually spanked him hard, and a dozen smacks generally wouldn’t have been nearly enough to make Sherlock cry, but after the day he’d just had it was hardly surprising that he couldn’t summon his usual stoicism.

Feeling a pang of guilt, John reminded himself firmly that Sherlock really had deserved the spanking he’d got. He’d been sent to bed and told to stay there, and he’d disobeyed. And if he was going to misbehave with that kind of frequency, then he was going to end up getting punishment layered on top of punishment. Knowing Sherlock—and knowing how Sherlock behaved on a regular basis—that was something they would both just have to get used to.

Even so, John didn’t envy Sherlock the task of sitting tomorrow. He was planning to let him have a pillow, but even so, it wasn’t going to be comfortable.

“You daft thing,” he murmured, and dropped another kiss into Sherlock’s hair. “You just keep getting yourself in trouble, don’t you? And then you just end up sore and sorry.”

Sherlock’s only reply was to sniffle into his shoulder and try to snuggle even closer to him, making his desire for comfort entirely clear. John made tender noises in response, murmuring more of the same soft reassurance, all the while rubbing Sherlock’s back and letting his fingers card through the messy curls.

He’d made it clear from the start that the comforting after a punishment was over would go on for as long as Sherlock needed it to, no matter how long that might be, so John was quite content to let him calm down in his own time. He kept Sherlock cuddled close, and his efforts were rewarded as Sherlock gradually relaxed into his embrace. At last he was almost limp against John’s side, sniffles quieted and his breathing slow and regular, despite the fact that he still had his face turned into John’s shoulder.

In fact, his breathing was so regular that John suspected Sherlock had actually fallen asleep, which wouldn’t be surprising given his tendency to drop off during cuddle time. The release of tension after a punishment seemed to shut his brain down for a while, which John thought was really a bit of a miracle in itself, considering that this was Sherlock they were talking about. Still, it wasn’t as if he minded. Sherlock got cuddly when he was asleep, which was rather nice if John was napping with him, and if he had plans to get up, then Sherlock falling asleep was an opportunity to extricate himself.

And he ought to try to extricate himself now, really. It had been a hideous hour of the morning when he got up for the tea and biscuits that he’d never actually obtained, and it would be an even more hideous hour of the morning now. A glance at Sherlock’s bedside clock confirmed that it was, and John sighed to himself. He was awfully comfortable, and tired enough that he had no desire to move, but if he was going to go back to bed and try to get a few more hours of sleep, then he probably ought to do it now.

Or on second thoughts, maybe he’d sleep on the sofa. For one thing, it was a lot closer than his bed was, and for another, he’d be on hand just in case Sherlock was mad enough to try sneaking out of bed yet again. John highly doubted it, given how sore he must be, but this _was_ Sherlock they were talking about. Better to be on the safe side, or in this case, the sofa side.

With another soft sigh, John reluctantly set about trying to slide out from under Sherlock’s warm weight, only to be surprised when Sherlock’s arm tightened around his waist to keep him in place. Not asleep after all, then, it seemed.

“It’s all right,” he soothed, patting Sherlock’s back. “You go to sleep. It’s late. I’m going to head off to bed too.”

In answer, Sherlock just held onto him more tightly, nuzzling his face against John’s shoulder. “Don’t go,” he mumbled. The words were slurred, as if Sherlock was more asleep than awake, but combined with the determined clinging the message was quite clear.

John hesitated, but only for a moment. Really, he supposed there was no reason why he shouldn’t stay here, if Sherlock wanted him to. It wasn’t like they hadn’t shared a bed to nap before. And he really was very comfortable. Even the sofa seemed much too far away right now.

The thought of the (unpleasantly long) distance between Sherlock’s bed and the sofa decided him. “All right,” he agreed in relief, letting himself relax back down onto the bed. Sherlock made a contented sound and nuzzled his shoulder again, and John smiled. Then another thought occurred to him, and his smile became a sigh as he realised that he was going to have to move after all, even if it wasn’t very far.

“Come on,” he said, nudging Sherlock. “I’ll stay, but you need to get under the covers or you’re going to get cold. And I need to get up and turn the light off.”

Sherlock made a sleepy, scornful sound that clearly expressed his opinion of those concerns, but John was determined on both counts. Sherlock was half naked and would get chilled unless he got under the duvet, and John hated sleeping with the light on.

It took a bit of nudging and convincing, but John finally managed to get Sherlock to wake up enough to crawl under the covers, albeit with some rather petulant grumbling about having to move. He wasn’t even going to attempt getting Sherlock’s pyjama bottoms back on him—that just seemed like far too much effort at this hour. Besides, with the state Sherlock’s bottom was in, he’d probably be more comfortable without them anyway.

First task done, John slid groggily off the bed and went to turn off the light, then climbed gratefully under the covers himself. As soon as he lay down, Sherlock attached himself to his side again, his head finding its way straight back to John’s shoulder. An arm looped back around his waist, and Sherlock settled against him with a contented sigh.

“G’night,” he mumbled, sounding mostly asleep again already.

“‘Night,” John replied fondly. He kissed the top of Sherlock’s head again, the affectionate gesture coming automatically, and cuddled his mad genius close as he let his eyes shut. His last thought before sleep claimed him was that at least like this, there was absolutely _no_ chance that Sherlock would be sneaking out of bed again tonight.

 


	4. Lines and a Tantrum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit shorter, mainly because it’s actually only half a chapter. The whole thing is a bit huge and I’m still editing the end of it, so I thought I’d start with half and put the other half up separately, rather than making those reading wait any longer for something new. I apologise that it’s a bit cliffhangery!
> 
> And do I need to warn for Sherlock throwing a massive tantrum and getting his mouth washed out with soap? Please consider yourself warned, just in case.

 

John woke the next morning to sunlight coming in the window, vague confusion about why the bed he was in didn’t feel like his bed, and the distinct feeling of being watched.

The first was self-explanatory—it was morning—and the second two were quickly explained when John opened his eyes and found that not only was he in Sherlock’s bed, but that Sherlock was lying propped up on one elbow beside him, his gaze fixed intently on John’s face.

It made him jump a little, and Sherlock smirked. John grinned back at him, swiping a hand over his face as he propped himself up to mirror Sherlock’s posture.

“Please tell me you haven’t been doing that for too long,” he said wryly. “It’s just bloody unnerving to be stared at while you sleep.”

“You were dreaming,” Sherlock told him. “It’s quite fascinating to watch.”

John rolled his eyes. “I’m so glad I can entertain you.” Then, recalling the events of yesterday, he added pointedly, “Although you don’t deserve to be entertained. You’re being punished.”

Sherlock sighed. “Believe me, I haven’t forgotten,” he said ruefully. “But I can get up at ten, can’t I?”

“Yes, you can get up at ten,” John confirmed, glancing over at Sherlock’s bedside clock. He was surprised to see that it was after eight. Apparently his body had decided to make up for the broken sleep the night before.

He turned back to Sherlock, who was still watching him as if he was quite the most interesting thing in the room, and felt the corners of his mouth turn up in a fond smile. “How are you feeling?” he asked, giving a meaningful nod towards Sherlock’s lower body.

“I’m fine,” Sherlock said, then met John’s eyes again and appeared to reconsider. “A bit sore,” he admitted quietly.

“I just bet,” John said, with genuine sympathy. “I’ll put some more arnica cream on you in a bit, that should help it feel better. Did you sleep?”

“Some,” Sherlock confirmed, sounding as though he was a little surprised by this. “I only woke up about two hours ago.”

And for lack of anything else to do, he’d probably spent most of those two hours watching John sleep. John supposed it said something that all that scrutiny apparently hadn’t disturbed him in the slightest. As far as he could tell, once he’d gone back to sleep with Sherlock safely cuddled up beside him, he’d slept like a baby.

He smiled to himself at that, pushing himself up into a sitting position and trying to blink the last of the sleep out of his brain. “Good,” he said. “All right, then. A couple more hours, and then the bedtime part will be over.” When Sherlock looked mournful at this, John gave him a comforting pat on the shoulder. “Not long now,” he said encouragingly. “I’ll go and make us some tea. Toast okay for breakfast?”

Sherlock made a face. “I’m not hungry.”

“I don’t care,” John said briskly, remembering his promise to himself from last night. “You barely ate a thing yesterday, and you are going to eat today. So: is toast okay for breakfast?”

Sherlock heaved a sigh that made it very clear he was feeling extremely put-upon, but nodded, albeit with obvious reluctance.

“Good,” John said, although somehow he doubted it would really be as easy as that. He pushed the covers back and rolled out of bed, running his fingers through his sleep tousled-hair. “Be back in a bit, then.”

Sherlock’s only response was another sigh, and John left him to his sulk and wandered down to the kitchen. The floor was cold on his bare feet, but he decided he wanted tea more than he wanted his slippers. He’d get Sherlock set up with some breakfast, and then he’d go upstairs for a shower. He was pretty sure he could leave Sherlock to his own devices long enough to shower and get dressed, at least. He couldn’t see Sherlock being daft enough to get out of bed again when his punishment was so close to being over.

Well, he probably wouldn’t be that daft. John could hope, anyway.

He had tea and toast ready in short order, and took it all down to Sherlock on a tray. Sherlock was lying face down, still half under the covers, but he dutifully rolled onto his side so that John could put the tray down on the bed for him.

“I want you to eat that,” John said firmly. “I’m serious. You ate practically nothing yesterday, and I’m going to make sure you’re properly fed today.”

Sherlock had already picked up his cup of tea, but he made a face as his gaze went to the plate of toast. “I’m not hungry, John,” he said, his voice edging just slightly into a whine. “Can’t I eat something later?”

“You can certainly eat something later,” John replied. “But you’re also going to eat that now.”

Sherlock made a frustrated noise. “It doesn’t make any sense to force me to eat when I’m not hungry,” he said sullenly. His expression was already turning into the kind of sulky stubbornness that said he was spoiling for an argument. It was quite likely that he was just trying to distract himself from being bored, but John wasn’t about to let it go any further.

He crossed his arms over his chest, giving Sherlock a warning look. “Sherlock, in case you’ve forgotten, you’re still being punished,” he said pointedly. “Do you really want to end up in any more trouble?”

Sherlock looked uneasy at that, probably remembering just how sore his bottom was, but he wasn’t quite ready to give up on his sulk. “But I’m not _hungry_ ,” he insisted crossly. “ _You_ try eating when you’re not hungry and see how you like it!”

John uncrossed his arms at that, his expression shifting from warning to genuinely stern. “Sherlock, you are inches away from getting yourself smacked again. Is that really how you want to start the day? Because if you keep pushing, that’s exactly what’s going to happen.”

Sherlock’s eyes went wide with alarm at the mention of getting smacked, and he hastily shook his head, one hand going automatically behind him as if to shield his bottom.

“Good,” John said. “In that case, you are going to eat that toast. I don’t care if you’re not hungry—you might not _feel_ hungry, but I can guarantee you that your body is. Going without food for too long isn’t healthy. I warned you that this is something I’m going to start coming down on you about.”

He had, too, when they’d been talking about the rules the other week and on several occasions since. Sherlock, of course, had claimed he’d already known that his erratic eating patterns would be an area of concern, because John was a doctor and it was _obvious_ , but that hadn’t stopped him from complaining about it. However, John had made it clear that while he would allow some leeway during cases, he simply wasn’t prepared to let Sherlock keep up his habit of half starving himself. John _was_ a doctor, after all, and he was concerned for Sherlock’s health, so reasonable nutrition was going on the list of rules whether Sherlock liked it or not.

Sherlock hadn’t seemed to particularly like it, but he had accepted it, albeit grudgingly and with complaints. John hoped that cooperation would hold this morning, because he really didn’t want to have to add yet more punishment onto what Sherlock was already getting. Hopefully with Sherlock as sore as he was, the threat of getting extra smacks on top of it would be enough to ensure he did as he was told, however reluctantly.

He levelled another stern look at Sherlock to back up his words. “Now I’m going to go upstairs and have a shower,” he said. “And when I come back, I expect to see that toast gone. And when I say gone,” he added, seeing the possibility of loopholes in those words, “I mean gone into your mouth, not gone because you chucked it out the window or did something else with it that wasn’t eating it. Eat your toast, Sherlock.” That was nothing less than an order, delivered in John’s best Captain Watson voice. “If I come back down and find you haven’t eaten it, then you’re getting smacked again and you can eat it on a sore bottom instead. Is that understood?”

Sherlock’s wounded look said that the world was full of injustice and John was a major contributor to it, but he nodded, apparently unwilling to push any further against such a clear ultimatum. “Yes,” he said sadly, lowering his eyes and managing to look absolutely forlorn. “Understood.”

“Good,” John said. “I’ll be back down in a bit. Remember, bedtime’s almost over.”

That wouldn’t be the end of Sherlock’s punishment—John had one more phase planned for him once he was allowed out of bed—but it would at least bring them a step closer to it. Honestly, Sherlock wasn’t the only one who would be very glad to see this over with.

Leaving Sherlock to (hopefully) eat his breakfast, John took himself off upstairs to shower and dress, using the time to get himself firmly back into the right mindset for his current role as the disciplinarian. He’d need to hold the line this morning, he knew. This had been a long punishment—far longer than anything he’d dished out before, and from his reactions, far longer than Sherlock had been expecting—and it was going to be longer yet. Sherlock was not going to be happy, and John would need to be firm.

The memory of what had happened yesterday—not to mention what _could_ have happened yesterday if Sherlock had been a bit less lucky—did wonders to firm John’s resolve, though. Incidents of lunacy like that were the whole reason they’d started this arrangement in the first place, and John was determined that he was going to make a very firm point on the matter of Sherlock risking his life for no good reason.

He’d already hammered that point into Sherlock’s bottom with the cane, along with a boring evening in bed to let the lesson sink in. Now he was going to do his best to hammer it into Sherlock’s mad genius brain as well.

Showered, dressed and feeling suitably authoritative, he went back downstairs and made himself another cup of tea, which he drank while he made his preparations for Phase Three. Mostly those preparations just involved clearing off a suitable space on the table and setting up the modest supplies required. Still, John made sure it was done right. Sherlock wasn’t going to like this, but then, that was rather the entire point.

Once he had everything set up and ready, he returned to Sherlock’s room. To his relief, both the cup and the plate were now empty, and Sherlock was regarding him with an expression that was halfway between virtuous (he’d done as he was told!) and put upon (he’d _grudgingly_ done as he was told).

John gave him an approving nod for the obedience and went to retrieve the arnica cream from where it was still sitting on Sherlock’s bedside table. “Come on, then,” he said fondly. “Make yourself comfortable and I’ll do some more doctoring.”

That got him a little eye roll, but Sherlock obeyed willingly enough, wriggling himself around to lie straight and gathering up a pillow to wrap his arms around. Since he was still minus pyjama bottoms—they were on the floor beside the bed—all John had to do was peel back the covers.

He sat down on the bed beside Sherlock, propping a knee up and leaning forward to cast an assessing eye over the marks the cane had left behind. He was glad to see that the welts looked much less angry than they had yesterday, the red fully faded into deep pink, although the tramline effect was still clearly visible with each, making an impressive pattern of stripes on Sherlock’s pale skin. They definitely looked better, but John didn’t doubt that they were still bloody sore, and would be even more so once Sherlock tried putting his weight on them.

At least the arnica cream would provide a bit of comfort, to all of Sherlock’s sore parts. The pink flush that the hairbrush had left on Sherlock’s thighs had faded, but the skin would most likely still be sensitive, so John intended to put arnica on all the areas he’d spanked even so. It was going to be difficult enough for Sherlock to sit—and he would have to sit—through the final phase of his punishment as it was. It was supposed to be unpleasant, but John didn’t want to it to be completely unbearable.

He shifted to sit cross-legged, getting himself into a comfortable position for some prolonged doctoring. “I’m afraid you’re going to have these stripes for a few days,” he said sympathetically, casting his eye over them again as he popped the lid off the arnica cream.

Sherlock turned his head to cast an artfully forlorn look over his shoulder, and John patted his back. “This will help,” he said, wiggling the tub with his free hand. “And actually, hold still for a minute,” he added, as his eyes went to the bruise on Sherlock’s cheek. Sherlock didn’t seem troubled by it, but it would probably benefit from some arnica too.

Sherlock dutifully held still as John scooped out a bit of the cream and carefully smoothed it over the bruise, which was now a purplish smudge across Sherlock’s cheekbone. “Done,” he said when he was finished, and Sherlock turned to face forward again and dropped his chin onto his pillow, wrapping his arms around it a bit more tightly.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, and John gave his back another fond pat.

“You’re welcome,” he replied. “Now let’s take care of the really sore bit, eh?”

Taking Sherlock’s silence in response for agreement—not that he’d been expecting any protests—John scooped out another fingerful of the cream and rested his free hand comfortingly in the small of Sherlock’s back, turning his attention back to the stripes on Sherlock’s bottom.

“Okay, here we go,” he said, and began very gently applying the cream to the lowest of the welts. Despite the warning, Sherlock flinched a little at the touch, and John rubbed his back in apology.

“Sorry,” he said. “I’ll be as gentle as I can.”

Sherlock shot him another mournful look over his shoulder, but made no protest, so John gave him a quick pat of encouragement and then returned to his ministrations. He made sure to be very gentle, using just the tips of his fingers to smooth the cream along the stripes, and was soon rewarded by Sherlock visibly relaxing under his touch, sinking lower onto his pillow and closing his eyes.

Once each individual stripe had been attended to, John began smoothing the cream lightly over the whole area of Sherlock’s bottom, and then down onto the backs of his thighs, making sure he covered all the areas that might be tender. He took his time, thinking that Sherlock could probably use the comforting touch after his fraught day yesterday (and fraught night, for that matter, at least the part when John caught him out of bed). He also kept half an eye on the clock, and managed to time it so that he was finished just as ten a.m. finally arrived.

“All right, that’s you done,” he said, sitting back and recapping the arnica cream. “And that’s your bedtime punishment done, too. You can get up now.”

Sherlock gave a sigh of what sounded like entirely heartfelt relief, propped himself up on his elbows and began hastily casting about for his pyjama bottoms, no doubt planning to leap out of bed as soon as they were back in place. John retrieved them from the floor and handed them over, but quickly went on, not wanting Sherlock to get too excited when his punishment was still ongoing.

“You can go and have a shower if you like, and get dressed if you want to,” he said. “But once you’ve done that I want you to come back to the living room. You’ve still got another part of your punishment left to go, and the sooner you get started with it, the sooner you’ll be finished.”

Sherlock’s face fell at this news, and he looked at John in obvious dismay. “ _More_ punishment? John, that’s not fair!” He gestured down at the bed in miserable indignation. “I was punished all _day_ yesterday. Isn’t that enough?”

“I told you there’d be more today,” John said, unmoved. “You knew this was coming. And if you’d stayed in bed when you were supposed to last night, you’d have been able to start it earlier. But you are going to do it, and the sooner you start, the sooner you’ll finish. It won’t take all day if you get a move on.”

Sherlock scowled darkly and shoved himself backwards off the bed, taking the top sheet with him. Apparently no longer prepared to bother with pyjama bottoms, he wrapped the sheet around his waist and straightened up with a wince. “You’ve already caned me, spanked me, stood me in the corner and sent me to bed for the day,” he said sullenly, his frustration obvious. “What else _is_ there?”

“You’ll see, won’t you,” John said more sternly. If Sherlock was looking to throw a tantrum, then John wanted to nip it in the bud before it even got started. Sherlock was going to have enough trouble sitting as it was; another spanking certainly wouldn’t help matters.

He pointed a firm finger at Sherlock. “No more arguing. Go and have your shower if you want it, and get dressed. Then meet me in the living room. Don’t push me on this, Sherlock. You _are_ still being punished until I say it’s finished. You trust me to see to your discipline, and I say that discipline is not over yet. Arguing with me about it will only get you more punishment added on top of what you’re already getting. Is that understood?”

Sherlock looked mutinous, but the mention of further punishment being added seemed to have forestalled his brewing tantrum, or at least downgraded it into a sulk. He gave a reluctant nod, and muttered, “Understood.”

“Good,” John said. “Get to it, then. You’re not on a time limit, but don’t push it.”

Sherlock stalked—or tried to stalk at least, even if the sheet was hampering him a bit—over to his wardrobe and began hunting around in it for clothes. Apparently he’d had enough of pyjamas for the moment, which John supposed wasn’t too surprising after how much he’d hated being sent to bed. But since he was obeying, albeit wearing an award-winning pout, John left him to it and took himself back out to the kitchen for another fortifying cup of tea.

He’d just put the kettle on when a sheet-draped Sherlock stormed sullenly past him, out through the living room and up the stairs in the direction of the shower, a bundle of clothes tucked under his arm. For the sake of Sherlock’s bottom, John just hoped he’d chosen something reasonably comfortable to wear, even though Sherlock didn’t really have an abundance of ‘casual’ clothes. He had suits and pyjamas and very little in between the two, which was odd but somehow just typically Sherlock.

John had another cup of tea and collected the paper, and was skimming the front section when he heard Sherlock’s footsteps coming back down the stairs. John got up to meet him in the living room, making sure he had his disciplinarian demeanour firmly back in place when Sherlock came in.

Sherlock was obviously freshly showered, his curly hair still damp and a bit wild from being towelled dry. He’d got dressed, but John was glad to see that he had chosen some of his few casual clothes to wear—the tracksuit bottoms that he occasionally lounged around in as a small step up from pyjamas, and the long-sleeved grey t-shirt that he paired with them. He’d put socks on, but not shoes, and he was hovering just inside the door in an endearingly awkward way, his expression caught halfway between sulky and embarrassed.

“Reporting for punishment detail, sir,” he muttered sullenly. John mentally rolled his eyes at the sarcasm, but didn’t allow himself to do it for real. He gave Sherlock a warning look instead.

“Watch the cheek,” he said firmly. “This is the last part of your punishment, and I don’t think you want to add anything more to it, do you?”

“No,” Sherlock agreed hastily. His pout was still in place, but his tone was earnest, so John let it go at that.

“All right.” He pointed the way to the table, where he’d set up everything Sherlock would need, and followed him as he reluctantly crossed to it. The items he’d put out would have been fairly self-explanatory even to most ‘normal’ people, so Sherlock had absolutely no trouble deducing what the final part of his punishment involved. And from the look on his face as he turned to John, he wasn’t the least bit happy about what those deductions were.

“You are _joking_ ,” he said, in a tone of absolute and very convincing horror. “John, you can’t be _serious_. You want me to … to …” He gestured helplessly at the table, as if he couldn’t even form the words.

“To write lines, yes,” John confirmed. “And no, I’m not joking. Three sentences. One hundred times each. I’ve set them out for you.”

He pointed to the single sheet of paper that was sitting beside the thick pad of refill. As promised, that sheet bore three lines of John’s handwriting, each one a sentence that John had chosen to make a point about the events that had started all this, and also to reflect what he wanted Sherlock to learn from this experience.

_I will not chase violent criminals without police backup_.

_When John says stop I will stop_.

_I will never jump onto the roof of a moving bus again_.

The last one was rather specific, he knew, but he had really wanted to make a point about the bus jumping.

Sherlock was still balking, looking back and forth between John and the table with an expression of rapidly deepening dismay. “No, you can’t be serious,” he insisted. “Lines, John? _Lines?_ You can’t be serious! I’ve been caned, sent to bed and now you’re putting me in _detention?_ ”

It occurred to John that Sherlock’s horrified reaction was really a bit ironic, since it had actually been Sherlock who had given him the idea of writing lines in the first place. The list of likely punishments that Sherlock had rattled off during their discussion about the rules had included things that John hadn’t even thought of until Sherlock mentioned them, and writing lines was one. John allowed that he might eventually have thought of it anyway, but the fact was it had been Sherlock who first put the idea in his head.

Not that John was going to remind Sherlock of that now, however. Instead, he folded his arms over his chest and regarded Sherlock with what he hoped was no-nonsense sternness.

“If that’s how you want to look at it, yes,” he said. “And yes, again, I am entirely serious. The point of this punishment is to drive home how unacceptable your behaviour was yesterday. So you’re going to write lines to help you remember what you can do better next time.” He pointed at the sheet of paper again. “No more arguing, Sherlock. Three sentences. One hundred times each. The sooner you start, the sooner you finish.”

His tone made it clear that there was no room for negotiation. Unfortunately, it seemed that Sherlock was too outraged to give up that easily.

“John, you’ve already made your point—honestly, you have!” he insisted. “You don’t need to punish me any more. Yesterday was enough!”

It was a virtual repeat of the argument he’d tried less than an hour ago, except that he sounded even more frustrated this time. John did sympathise—he knew Sherlock must be feeling like his punishment was going on forever—but he’d already warned him once this morning about arguing over the terms of his discipline, and he wasn’t prepared to just keep issuing warnings with no consequences.

He took Sherlock firmly by the elbow and turned him around, drawing his hand back to deliver the appropriate penalty smack—only to have Sherlock quickly twist out of his hold, turning his bottom to the table and backing up against it.

“No, John, please,” he appealed. His expression had changed instantly from defiant to pleading, and his hands had gone automatically behind him, trying to shield his bottom. “I won’t argue anymore. I promise. I’m sore!”

He sounded so earnest that John was very tempted to give in, especially since he was quite sure that Sherlock was telling the truth about being sore. But he firmly reminded himself that giving in wasn’t what Sherlock needed from him—too many people gave in to him already. He needed John to be the authority figure, the one who didn’t give in.

The thought firmed his resolve, and he crossed his arms over his chest again and gazed at Sherlock sternly. “Turn around now,” he said, “and it’ll be one smack. Make me ask you again, and it’ll be two. Your choice.”

Sherlock looked so crestfallen that John thought it was a minor miracle that he didn’t just cave in and let him off then and there, firm resolve or no. He made sure his stern gaze didn’t waver, though, and after a brief moment of hesitation Sherlock gave a woeful sigh and very reluctantly turned around. Even more reluctantly, he moved his hands away from his bottom and placed his palms flat on the table, bending forward at the waist to obediently offer John his target.

John stepped up beside him and put a hand lightly on his back, wanting to offer some small reassurance. Pressing down a little in warning, he raised his other hand and planted one smart smack across Sherlock’s bottom, low down and dead centre.

The smack wasn’t hard, but it didn’t need to be. Sherlock squeaked and straightened up like a released spring, both hands flying back to gingerly rub the punished spot.

John patted his back consolingly. “All right, that’s all, so long as you behave,” he said, keeping his voice firm despite internally wincing in sympathy. “And by behave I mean stop arguing, sit down and start writing.” He let his voice gentle just a little as he repeated, “The sooner you start, the sooner you’ll finish. Just get it over with.”

Sherlock turned around to face him, grey eyes wide and mournful, both hands still carefully rubbing at the spot where John had smacked him. He cast a forlorn look down at the chair that was waiting for him and seemed to wince at the very thought, his gaze flying back up to fix on John pleadingly.

“John, do I really have to sit down to do them?” he asked, then added hastily, “I’m not arguing!” He shifted where he stood, looking miserably awkward. “You don’t know how sore it is.”

“I’ve got some idea,” John said, remembering his own demonstration of the cane and his reluctance to sit down afterwards. “And I know it must hurt. You can sit, though.” His tone was kind, but unyielding; Sherlock was going to sit down whether he wanted to or not. “You can have a cushion, and that’ll help take the edge off. The rest is part of the lesson.”

Sherlock searched his face imploringly for a moment or two more, then his shoulders slumped a little, as he obviously realised that John wasn’t going to be swayed. “All right,” he murmured in resignation.

“Good.” John stepped over to the sofa and picked out what looked like the softest cushion available, then handed it to Sherlock, who accepted it dolefully.

“There you go,” John said. “You get started on those and I’ll bring you a cup of tea. While you’re writing, same rules apply as for bedtime—if you need the loo then by all means get up, otherwise you stay in your seat and keep doing your lines. If you get hungry, just tell me and I’ll bring you something. I’ll be right here while you work.”

He knew that would probably seem harsh to Sherlock, to finally be let off his bedtime punishment only to have the same restrictions slapped down on him again while he wrote his lines. But John knew that if he wasn’t firm about keeping Sherlock’s concentration on his task, it would only drag out longer and longer. Better to just stick him to his seat, at least metaphorically, and make him get on with it.

Sherlock managed to look even more downcast when he heard the rules, but he just nodded unhappily and didn’t protest. Apparently he was unwilling to risk being smacked again, and after his reaction to the one he’d already got, John wasn’t surprised. Poor Sherlock was obviously quite sore indeed, if a single fairly mild smack to his bottom could make him jump like that.

Right now Sherlock was eyeing the chair as if it was going to bite him, which John reflected probably wasn’t far from what it was going to feel like. He watched with genuine sympathy as Sherlock put the cushion down on the chair seat and very gingerly eased himself onto it. He winced and hissed in pain as his bottom took his weight, but with grim determination he managed to obediently settle himself in the chair, before turning a look on John that was nothing short of heartbreakingly forlorn.

John was quite sure that look would have melted much harder hearts than his. Despite his resolve to be the disciplinarian until this was over, he couldn’t help leaning down to put an arm around Sherlock’s shoulders, giving him a brief hug and pressing a kiss into his tousled hair.

“Well done,” he said. “That was very brave.” Another kiss to the top of Sherlock’s head, and John straightened up. “I’ll get you some tea. You get started, and it won’t be long before this is over.”

Sherlock’s woebegone look remained firmly in place, but he had seemed glad to get the hug—John had definitely felt him lean into it. John had already been planning on a good long session of cuddle time once this last part of Sherlock’s punishment was over, but that reaction made him silently vow to make it a really, really good one. This was by far the harshest punishment he’d given Sherlock since their arrangement had started, and while Sherlock might try not to show it, John suspected he’d need a lot of reassurance once it was over.

For now, though, he took himself back to the kitchen to put the kettle on again, and soon had two cups of tea ready. He made sure he had Sherlock’s the way he liked it, then went to set it on the table next to him. He’d been tempted to take him something to eat as well, but Sherlock had already made such a fuss about just eating some toast that John didn’t want to encourage any more tantrums. Sherlock had eaten something, and that would do for now; John could work on getting more food into him later.

He was pleased to see that Sherlock had dutifully started to write as instructed, lining sentences one by one down the page. He’d started with the first one on John’s list, the one about not chasing violent criminals without police backup. John knew it was probably far too much to hope that writing it out a hundred times would actually make Sherlock do it, but he did hope there might be at least some small possibility that the repetition would mean it didn’t get immediately deleted.

He also really wanted to give Sherlock another hug, especially since the poor thing looked so uncomfortable. He was holding himself gingerly, almost perching, and he was shifting and squirming in his seat, even though John suspected he was trying hard not to. After seeing the state of Sherlock’s bottom this morning, John wasn’t surprised he was having trouble sitting still. Putting his weight on those stripes had to be quite sore indeed.

But it was part of the lesson, and John knew he had to be firm. He settled for patting Sherlock on the shoulder in lieu of a hug, silently telling himself there would be hugs aplenty when the punishment was over.

“Good work,” he said approvingly. “Keep it up. I’ll be right here, so just tell me if you need something, or if you want some food.”

Sherlock nodded, looking miserable but resigned, and John retreated to his armchair to keep reading the paper. He’d have to find things to do to keep himself entertained while Sherlock was working, but he had the paper, and there were books, including the latest issue of a medical journal that he hadn’t got round to reading yet. And his laptop of course, although he’d have to make sure he surfed quietly if he went on the internet. It wouldn’t be fair to distract Sherlock from his task with too much noise.

He got settled with the paper for a start, and for a while there was near silence in the flat, broken only by John turning pages and the rhythmic scratching of Sherlock’s pen as he wrote. John began to think with cautious optimism that if they kept going like this, then this last part of Sherlock’s punishment would be over relatively quickly, without it being nearly the fraught experience that the first two parts had been.

Really, he should have known that was far too much to hope for.

He wasn’t sure what actually set Sherlock off. It may have simply been that Sherlock had reached some kind of internal threshold of tolerance for being bored. John already knew that boredom could simmer away in Sherlock’s brain like some kind of volatile chemical mixture, ready to boil over into explosive madness if it went just that little bit too far. Having a long and boring bedtime punishment immediately followed by the tedious monotony of writing lines—and it being his first experience with both, at least in a very long time—might have just been enough to tip Sherlock over his tolerance limit.

Not that it was any excuse for what followed, at least not as far as John was concerned.

It was bloody sudden, too—typical mercurial Sherlock. One minute he was sitting quietly at the table, dutifully writing away, and the next he was leaping to his feet in a blur of motion, kicking his chair over with a resounding crash, and—just to make it a really proper tantrum—throwing things.

The pen was first. That he threw at the wall. Then the pad of refill he’d been working off, which he flung across the room. Then the completed pages he’d torn off the pad, which he ripped in half and pitched directly overhead. Then the spare pen, which followed the first one and got hurled at the wall. And finally the page John had written the assigned sentences on, which Sherlock screwed up into a ball and threw _at_ John. And all of this was accompanied by Sherlock shouting at the top of his lungs, loud enough that John thought the whole bloody street could probably hear him.

“This is ridiculous!” he bellowed. “It’s boring! It’s stupid! It’s not _fair!_ I’ve been whacked, I’ve been sent to bed and now I’m in fucking _detention!_ It’s like being back in fucking school! I hated school the first time! I didn’t even do anything that bad! It was just a fucking bus and I was _fine!_ I’ve done much worse things than that and no one cared! I—”

His ranting was only cut off because John interrupted him, otherwise John had the feeling it might have gone on for quite some time. Sherlock had gone into a full on meltdown of a tantrum, having such a fit that John honestly wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d escalated to throwing himself on the floor and kicking and screaming. It seemed like he might be only inches away from doing just that, he was so worked up.

Not that John had any intention of letting it get that far. Sherlock’s initial explosion had taken him by surprise—it really had come out of nowhere—but John had always worked well under pressure. As he shot up out of his own chair, he snapped his disciplinarian face on as firmly as he ever had, fully intending to put a stop to Sherlock’s fit in a way he’d never forget.

Four quick strides took him to Sherlock’s side, and then John was reaching up to take a firm hold of him—not by his elbow or his shoulder or anything so relatively dignified this time, but by his ear. He snatched it in a firm grip between finger and thumb, and Sherlock’s tirade cut off with a squawk of mingled alarm and indignation.

“Ow!” he cried. “John, don’t!”

John didn’t have the angle to smack him while he was holding him by the ear, so he settled for pinching a bit harder instead. Sherlock yelped in protest and his hands flew up to try to dislodge John’s grip on him. “Ow! _John!_ ”

In answer, John just began towing him across the room, the firm grip on his ear forcing Sherlock to follow him whether he wanted to or not. John pulled him through the living room, then the kitchen, then into the back hall, Sherlock yelping and complaining the whole way.

He sounded halfway between outraged and mortified, and John could hardly blame him. Being dragged along by one’s ear was about as undignified as it got, something he could remember well enough from his own childhood. And since Sherlock was taller than he was, he was forced to bend over as well, so that he was literally being towed along headfirst. John knew it must be very embarrassing as well as uncomfortable, but he had no plans to relent. If Sherlock was going to throw tantrums like a six-year-old, then he was bloody well going to get treated like a six-year-old.

Sherlock started to really dig his feet in as they approached his bedroom, guessing at John’s intentions, and his protests changed abruptly in tone, complaints giving way to pleading as the imminent prospect of further punishment overrode his temper. “John, don’t! I’ll stop. I’ve stopped! I’ll do my lines, I promise. John, please!”

But this time Sherlock had misjudged what John intended to do—or at least he’d jumped the gun. Instead of going for Sherlock’s bedroom, John opened the door to the toilet beside it and hauled Sherlock inside. There wasn’t a lot of room for both of them, but it had been either this or dragging Sherlock all the way upstairs. He supposed he could have used the kitchen sink, but there wasn’t any soap there, and he wasn’t willing to try using dishwashing liquid.

There was a sink in here, though, and there was soap, so cramped or not this would do. He let go of Sherlock’s ear, turned him around and smacked him sharply, propelling him towards the sink. Sherlock jumped and his hands flew behind him, trying to protect his bottom from further punishment.

“Bend over the sink,” John snapped, coming up beside Sherlock and taking a firm hold of his elbow, just in case Sherlock tried to bolt. As worked up as he was, John wouldn’t put it past him.

Sherlock didn’t, though. He turned wide, anxious eyes on John, confusion, for once, written openly across his face. “Why?” he asked plaintively.

“Deduce it,” John said sharply. “I’m going to wash that disrespectful mouth of yours out with soap. We’ll see if that teaches you a lesson about throwing tantrums and swearing at me.”

Sherlock’s eyes went huge, the confusion on his face giving way to surprise and consternation. “Soap?” he echoed in obvious horror. “John, you don’t need to do that!”

“Apparently I do,” John said. “If you’re going to behave like a child, then you’re going to get treated like one.”

He was turning on the tap even as he spoke, grabbing the bar of soap and a convenient flannel from where they sat beside the sink. A wet flannel and a good rub of the soap on it produced a healthy amount of foam, and John turned to where Sherlock was still standing, staring at him in utter dismay.

“Bend over,” he said again, pointing a firm finger at the sink.

Sherlock’s eyes went to the sink, then to the flannel in John’s hand, then back up to his face. He didn’t move. “John,” he pleaded, his eyes wide with appeal. “Please, I’ll behave. I will. You really don’t need to do this.”

John sincerely wished he didn’t. But there was no question in his mind that Sherlock deserved everything he was getting after that performance, and John was not going to be swayed by pleading looks, no matter how much they might tug at his heartstrings.

“Yes, I do, Sherlock,” he replied sternly. “And as soon as we’re done here, you’re going in the corner, and then you’re getting a spanking for that tantrum. The longer you make me wait, the more smacks you’re going to get. Now don’t make this any worse than it has to be.”

Sherlock searched his face frantically, no doubt looking for any hints that John might be open to giving him a reprieve. John could see his shoulders sag forlornly when he didn’t find any.

“Sherlock,” he said again, his tone a clear warning. “Now.”

His face a study in misery, Sherlock reluctantly stepped forward, one hand still hovering protectively over his bottom. He cast a final pleading look at John, but when it was met with nothing but stern resolve, he heaved a dejected sigh and leaned over the sink. A moment later he squeezed his eyes shut, as if he couldn’t bear to watch what was about to happen.

“Open your mouth,” John said, and Sherlock shuddered but did as he was told, keeping his eyes tightly closed.

John made short work of the mouth washing, not wanting to drag it out any longer than necessary. He was careful not to be rough, but he did make sure that Sherlock’s tongue got an instructive coating of foamy bubbles, courtesy of the soapy flannel. Sherlock’s face screwed up in disgust at the taste, and he quickly began to make stifled coughing sounds, instinctively trying to pull away. John’s firm hand on the back of his neck kept him in place, though, and after that first automatic reaction Sherlock didn’t fight him. His hands dropped down to grip the edges of the sink, holding on tightly as he struggled to keep himself still.

It only went on for about a minute, but from the increasingly distressed noises Sherlock was making, that minute must have felt like a very long time. Deciding that enough was enough, John withdrew the flannel and released the back of Sherlock’s neck, patting him in brisk consolation. “All right. You can rinse.”

Sherlock gave a gasp of relief and wasted no time in turning the tap on, bending further over the sink as he scooped handfuls of water into his mouth. John gave him a minute to get the worst of the taste out of his mouth, then turned the tap off and tugged Sherlock upright.

Sherlock gazed mournfully back at him, his eyes bright and distressed, still watering from the sharp taste of the soap. His cheeks were flushed a blotchy red, and he looked utterly miserable, so much so that John was very glad he’d been working on firming his resolve or else he’d probably have caved in then and there.

Instead, he met Sherlock’s gaze with a perfectly stern one of his own. “Right,” he said. “Corner time, then, before you get the spanking you deserve. Come with me.”

He took Sherlock by the elbow and firmly escorted him next door into his bedroom, then urged him forward with another sharp smack to his bottom. Sherlock gave a pitiful yelp and scurried into the corner, hastily putting his hands behind his back.

“Fifteen minutes,” John said. “Stand still and no talking. Think about what you did wrong and be ready to tell me.”

His only reply was a soft sound that could have been a sniffle, and a miserable little shift of Sherlock’s feet before he went obediently still again. Even from behind, he looked absolutely dejected, his tantrum fully given way to punished woefulness.

With Sherlock safely in the corner, John sank down onto Sherlock’s bed, where he could both keep an eye on his charge and take a few moments to catch his breath and think. He’d managed to successfully come down on Sherlock like a ton of bricks, and he’d very effectively put an end to the tantrum, but the whole thing had rather taken him by surprise. Fifteen minutes to calm down and think would do him good, as well as Sherlock.

Because the question now was what, exactly, he was going to _do_ with Sherlock.

That had been one hell of a tantrum, that was for sure. Even by Sherlock’s standards, that one had been impressive. Although John had to admit it was telling, too—that even when Sherlock had been shouting his displeasure at the top of his lungs, he’d never once actually said anything that sounded like a refusal to be disciplined. He’d just complained about it at high volume.

And now John had promised him a spanking, which was really no more than Sherlock deserved after throwing a fit like that, and he certainly meant to deliver. Sherlock needed a stern lesson about throwing tantrums, especially screaming meltdown tantrums where he swore at John and threw things. No question about that at all.

But what kind of spanking, that was the question. And in deciding on the answer, John was faced with much the same dilemma as he had been last night when he’d caught Sherlock out of bed. Sherlock certainly deserved to be punished, but John still really didn’t like the idea of coming down too hard on him when he was already so sore, and already being harshly punished for yesterday’s misbehaviour. Not to mention that he’d already washed Sherlock’s mouth out with soap, which had been a very unpleasant punishment in itself.

He also had to consider that whatever he decided on, Sherlock would have to sit down again shortly afterwards to write his lines, since John had every intention of following through on that punishment—Sherlock wasn’t getting out of it just because he’d thrown a tantrum; John certainly knew better than to set that precedent. And what was more he’d be starting from the beginning, too, since he’d ripped up all the ones he’d already done.

But sitting down had obviously been hard enough for him as it was, on top of those stripes from the cane. It was supposed to be uncomfortable, of course; that was part of the punishment, but John didn’t want it to be completely unbearable for him. It was meant to be an unpleasant lesson, not torture.

However, while those considerations made him want to be lenient, the problem was that Sherlock also needed to learn a good lesson about throwing tantrums, especially while he was being punished. John could hardly just give him a few quick smacks and call it done, not after a performance like that—and as well as the tantrum itself, there were also Sherlock’s remarks about what happened yesterday being ‘not that bad’ and ‘just a bus’ to cover, too.

Right, John thought. So he needed to somehow make a very firm point, while also not being too harsh. Which meant that basically he was going to have to do again what he’d done last night, and try to find a reasonable middle ground.

He wondered for a moment if he ought to just repeat exactly what he’d done last night. That punishment had certainly seemed to be effective enough, even though he really hadn’t spanked Sherlock that hard. But then, he’d also been deliberately more lenient than he otherwise might have been last night, because he’d felt that he was partly at fault for Sherlock’s disobedience. Sherlock’s tantrum, however, had been all Sherlock’s own doing, which made this a rather different situation.

Still, that punishment had been a reasonable middle ground, or at least John thought so. And that was what he wanted this time, too. Even if he didn’t repeat it exactly, he could at least use it as a template. He’d made a point last night of making the punishment sound worse than it actually was, with the emphasis coming more from putting Sherlock over his knee and scolding him than from the actual spanking. Not that the spanking hadn’t stung, because John was sure that it had, but the point was that he’d made it sound more severe than it had actually been. Perhaps he could just do that again this time, only … more so.

All right, he thought. Yes, that could work. He’d put Sherlock over his knee again, and do plenty of scolding to make it sound worse than it was, but just like last night he’d make the actual spanking fairly mild, and target Sherlock’s thighs again instead of his bottom. Although he could perhaps make it a bit harder than the one he’d given Sherlock last night, just to really make his point about tantrums being unacceptable. He could still be careful with the hairbrush, and make it sting rather than actually hurt. Even as sore as he was, a bit of a sting wasn’t going to do Sherlock any harm.

And actually, given that, perhaps he should just give Sherlock more smacks rather than harder ones. So long as he took reasonable care, Sherlock should still be quite able to sit down to write his lines afterwards without it being unbearable, especially with a good interval for cuddle time first to let the smart subside.

Another thought struck him then. If surface sting was really all he intended, then perhaps he ought not to use the hairbrush at all. He could be careful with it, certainly, but it was still rather solid, and even using it mildly it still packed a good wallop. However, there were wooden spoons in the kitchen, and they were a lot lighter. John hadn’t had occasion to use one on Sherlock yet, but he’d checked to make sure they had some, and there had been one in particular that had looked quite perfect for the job.

Yes, he thought, warming to the idea. A wooden spoon would work. Lighter than the hairbrush, it would sting awfully—something John remembered all too well from his own childhood experiences—but it would be just that, surface sting that didn’t last long. And to make sure that he really made his point about tantrums, he could just spank Sherlock for a longer time. If he did it right, a light but longer spanking could be just as effective a lesson as a harder one would be.

Actually, now that he was thinking about it, it might be even more effective, not to mention very appropriate for the behaviour he was punishing.

The idea quickly took shape in John’s mind, firming into a plan that he found himself grimly approving of. Yes, he’d give Sherlock a light spanking, one with plenty of sting but with no real force—a baby spanking, so to speak. He’d use a wooden spoon instead of the hairbrush, to make it lighter still. But it would also be an extended one, a spanking that gave Sherlock a good long time over John’s knee to think about his behaviour.

And to compensate for the fact that he was using a less severe implement, he could even give Sherlock a few smacks to his bottom, as well as to his thighs. The wooden spoon would be light enough that it wouldn’t do any further damage over the marks from the cane, but even a bit of surface sting on top of those stripes would make a very effective point indeed.

He wouldn’t even have to spank the whole time. He could take breaks, perhaps, and make sure to do plenty of scolding in between smacks. And he could make it appropriately toned scolding, too. Given Sherlock’s behaviour, that would mean he’d have to take it down to a pretty juvenile level, but that was fine. He could do that. If nothing else, it would take Sherlock down a peg or two.

Right, he thought determinedly. That was his plan. Sherlock needed a very firm lesson about tantrums, but a spanking didn’t necessarily have to be hard to be effective. In this case, making the punishment fit the crime might work very well indeed. Sherlock had thrown a fit worthy of a toddler, so … John would treat him like one.

He glanced at the clock on Sherlock’s bedside table. Six minutes of corner time left to go, which meant that John had better get himself ready. First of all, he was going to need the wooden spoon.

He got to his feet, casting a stern eye over Sherlock—who couldn’t see it, but it was the principle of the thing. “I’ll be back in a minute,” he said. “You stay right where you are.”

With that warning given, he made the short trip down the hall to the kitchen and retrieved the wooden spoon, which luckily hadn’t moved since he’d first found it. He hefted it in his hand and nodded to himself. It was light, but still sturdy enough that he wouldn’t need to worry about snapping it, and the back of the spoon was almost flat, with only a very slight curve to it. Much like Sherlock’s hairbrush, it could almost have been designed with spanking in mind.

He took it back down to Sherlock’s bedroom, pleased to find Sherlock still standing obediently in the corner, looking as if he hadn’t moved an inch. “Well done,” John said, thinking that some praise wouldn’t go amiss even if Sherlock was being punished. “I’m glad I can trust you to do as you’re told.”

There was no reply from Sherlock, who by now knew better than to talk while he was in the corner, but he stood up a little straighter. The praise had been a little childish, maybe, but John had learned that to Sherlock, praise was praise, or at least it was when it was coming from him. And when Sherlock was being punished, he seemed to accept that a lot of what John said was going to come in a more juvenile tone. Some of it, like the comforting afterwards, Sherlock even seemed to genuinely enjoy.

The scolding he was going to get very shortly, though, John suspected he wouldn’t enjoy at all.

There were only a few minutes to go now until Sherlock’s corner time would be over, so John sat down on the edge of the bed, put the spoon down beside him, and working on using those few minutes to get himself fully into his disciplinarian mindset—and more than that, the right mindset for the kind of disciplining he was planning to do. He had some ideas about what he was going to say to Sherlock when he scolded him, although some of it he would still have to wing depending on how Sherlock reacted. But by the time Sherlock’s fifteen minutes in the corner were up, John was satisfied that he had at least a partial plan well in mind.

Now it was time to put it into action.

 


	5. The Wooden Spoon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here’s part two! Just lots of spanking and lots of cuddling to be found here.

 

“All right,” John said. “Corner time is up. Come here, Sherlock.”

Sherlock turned to face him, looking miserably resigned as he took in John’s position on the bed, and came reluctantly over. John saw his eyes widen a little as he noticed the wooden spoon, and his gaze flew back to John’s face, questioning.

“Not the hairbrush this time,” John confirmed, picking up the spoon. “You’ll get this instead.” He patted his thigh with the back of it, then turned a meaningful look towards Sherlock’s lower half. “Now take those down and put yourself over my knee.”

Colour rose in Sherlock’s cheeks, but he obeyed without protest, easing his tracksuit bottoms over his hips with a wince and then pushing them down to his knees. Apparently he hadn’t wanted to wear pants underneath—and given the state of his bottom John could quite understand why—so with no more clothing to adjust, he climbed gingerly onto the bed. He gave John one final, very forlorn look, as if he was still hoping for the possibility of a last minute reprieve, but when John’s raised eyebrow made it clear that one wouldn’t be forthcoming, Sherlock sighed in resignation and dutifully bent over his lap.

He took a moment to wriggle himself into place, pushing forward with his toes until his striped bottom was propped up over John’s left thigh. Seconds later he had grabbed one of the pillows from the head of the bed, and wrapped his arms tightly around it before promptly burying his face in it.

John managed not to smile at the gesture, but he couldn’t help the feeling of instinctive tenderness it brought. Sherlock’s pillow-hugging was just too endearing, no matter how stern John was trying to be.

He clamped down on it though, reminding himself that right now he was being the disciplinarian and he had to be firm, and patted Sherlock’s back briskly with his free hand. “Over a bit more,” he said, and Sherlock obediently wriggled forwards a little, managing to do it without lifting his face out of the pillow so much as a fraction.

John put a steadying hand in the small of Sherlock’s back, and rested the spoon lightly on one thigh, right at the top. Sherlock flinched a little at the contact, and John couldn’t help giving his back a quick rub with his free hand, offering just a bit of comfort.

He made sure to keep his voice stern, though, not allowing any of his softer feelings to bleed through. “Sherlock, do you understand why you’re being punished?”

A muffled “Yes,” came from the depths of the pillow, and John tapped the spoon lightly on Sherlock’s thigh, eliciting another little flinch.

“Take your face out of the pillow and tell me,” John said. “What did you do wrong?”

Sherlock gave an unhappy sigh, but obediently turned his face to the side, just enough so that the pillow wasn’t smothering his words. “I …” he began, and then hesitated, as if he’d thought better of what he was going to say. John fancied that he could almost feel Sherlock’s reluctance, followed by the mental backtrack as he hedged his answer to something that he liked the sound of a little better. “I … got angry.”

John could certainly understand why he preferred that wording to what John would have called it—and what he had the feeling Sherlock had been about to call it before he changed his mind. ‘I got angry’ sounded a lot better than ‘I threw a temper tantrum’. However, throwing a temper tantrum was exactly what Sherlock had done, and John wasn’t going to let him get away with hedging to make it sound less childish. Not to mention, he wanted to make it clear that he wasn’t going to punish Sherlock for his feelings—only for his behaviour.

“No, that’s not it,” John told him, firmly but patiently. “You’re allowed to get angry. I won’t ever punish you for having feelings, no matter what they are. What you will be punished for is your behaviour, and that’s what you’re being punished for now. Not because you got angry, but because you decided that being angry made it all right for you to throw a temper tantrum.”

Sherlock stiffened a bit at those words, and turned his face hastily into his pillow again. John wasn’t unsympathetic, but at the same time, he knew it was for the best that he made it clear. He didn’t want Sherlock confused over why he was being punished. And besides, after the performance he’d put on, Sherlock rather deserved to have his behaviour described as what it was.

“Do you understand what I’ve said?” he asked, and Sherlock quickly nodded into the pillow. “Good,” John went on. “Tell me then: why are you being punished?”

There was a long, reluctant pause, and John tapped the spoon on Sherlock’s thigh again, saying warningly, “Sherlock …”

Sherlock gave a little groan, but dutifully turned his face to the side once more. “I threw a tantrum,” he said miserably. His cheeks had flushed an embarrassed pink, and as soon as he got the words out he buried his face back in the pillow.

“That’s right,” John said. “You did. I’m sorry I have to do this, but if you behave like that, then I’m afraid this is what you’re going to get.”

He pressed down a little more firmly on the small of Sherlock’s back, and felt Sherlock tense at the tacit warning and hug his pillow even tighter. John raised the wooden spoon, noting again how light it felt compared to the hairbrush, and brought it down with a smart crack at the very top of Sherlock’s thigh.

The smack wasn’t hard. John was keeping his plan firmly in mind—this spanking would be stingy but light, a baby-spanking, and entirely appropriate for Sherlock’s behaviour. Even so, Sherlock still jumped as it connected, and gasped softly into his pillow.

And now for the scolding to go with it. “Tantrums,” John said sternly, as he raised the wooden spoon again, “are not acceptable behaviour.”

He brought the spoon down as he spoke, planting the matching smack onto the other thigh this time. The noise it made was different to the hairbrush, too—it sounded lighter and sharper as it landed. John couldn’t help but wince a little inside as he brought it down, remembering all too clearly his own childhood experiences with a very similar spoon.

For his part, Sherlock winced a lot more visibly, jumping again and giving another little gasp. Even though John wasn’t spanking hard, apparently the wooden spoon stung just as much as he remembered it doing.

That wasn’t going to dissuade him from using it, though. He raised the spoon again, scolding in the same stern tone, “And if you think you’re going to get away with behaving like that, Sherlock Holmes, then you have another think coming.”

He gave Sherlock two smacks this time, planting them both directly on top of the pink patches where the first two had landed, and pulling another quiet, muffled gasp from Sherlock. “Is that understood?” John asked, in a tone that made it clear he expected an answer.

Sherlock nodded hastily into the pillow, his curls bouncing with the motion. However, this time John wasn’t going to let him get away with a non-verbal answer. He gave Sherlock another warning tap with the spoon, not quite a smack but enough to be felt. “Answer me properly, Sherlock,” he insisted. “Is that understood?”

Sherlock had obviously read the warning inherent in that tap, because he quickly replied out loud, although since he hadn’t lifted his head it was severely muffled by the pillow. Still, John was able to make out, “Yes,” and then an obediently echoed, “Understood.”

John decided that it would do; so long as Sherlock answered what he was asked, he’d let him keep his face buried if he wanted to. “Good,” he said. He lowered the spoon—for now, at least—and rested it lightly on the back of Sherlock’s thigh. Sherlock tensed again as he felt it, then slowly relaxed a little, as he apparently realised that it was staying where it was for the moment.

“Right,” John went on firmly. “Since that’s understood, let’s go into a bit more detail, just so that we’re clear about this. I want you to know that you’re allowed to be upset, and you’re allowed to be angry. You’re allowed to be unhappy that you’re being punished and you’re allowed to not like it. But what you are not allowed to do is shout and swear and throw things, and you’re especially not allowed to shout and swear and throw things at me. You don’t get to throw a temper tantrum just because you don’t like the punishment you’ve earned, Sherlock Holmes. And if you do throw a tantrum … well.” He paused meaningfully, and tapped the wooden spoon lightly on Sherlock’s thigh.

He’d intended to keep on lecturing, but another idea suddenly came to him, and he decided to change tack. “You tell me, Sherlock,” he said. “What do you think should happen if you throw a temper tantrum?” He gave Sherlock another firm pat with the spoon, both to supply him with the obvious answer and to encourage him to say it.

Although if the soft whine that came from the pillow was any indication, Sherlock did not feel particularly encouraged. John gave him a moment, but when no answer was forthcoming he tapped Sherlock’s thigh again, a little more firmly this time.

“Sherlock,” he said, his tone warning now. “Answer me.”

But despite the warning, Sherlock’s only reply was another muffled whine, and a plaintive sounding, “John …”

John could understand his reluctance. He knew Sherlock thoroughly disliked having to participate in being scolded, and having to do it after his spanking had actually started would doubtless be even worse. John’s tone, and his wording, wouldn’t be making it any better either, since he sounded like he was talking to a misbehaving little kid, and very deliberately so. He’d known that was never going to go down well, but he’d decided that he was going to pitch his scolding to a suitably juvenile level, so Sherlock would just have to put up with it.

This was also a change from the usual routine—for all that the usual routine was only a few weeks old. But apart from that first time, John had generally kept the question and answer sessions as a pre-spanking ritual. Once the spanking started, he was the one who did almost all of the talking, so this change of tactics probably wasn’t what Sherlock had been expecting.

However, John was the one who was making the rules, and on this occasion he’d decided that participating in the scolding would be part of Sherlock’s punishment. Not to mention, there was going to be a lot more scolding than there was actual spanking this time, and he intended to make sure that Sherlock was listening to him.

And since Sherlock had just ignored his warning, there would have to be a penalty. John raised the spoon again—feeling Sherlock instantly tense at the movement—and applied another two smart smacks to the tops of Sherlock’s thighs.

“Answer me,” he repeated. “Or I’ll smack you again. When I ask you a question, I expect an answer. What do you think should happen if you throw a temper tantrum?”

Apparently Sherlock was quite thrown indeed by this departure from their usual routine—and perhaps still in a somewhat volatile mood, because he seemed to have made a very quick shift from meek and obedient back to sulky and defiant. He still didn’t answer John’s question, but huffed into his pillow and kicked a foot petulantly against the bed. “John …” he complained again, more loudly this time.

Oh hell, John thought. It looked Sherlock was headed right back into his stroppy mood, and never mind that he was over John’s knee this time while he was doing it.

Determined to nip this in the bud before it got out of hand, John said sternly, “Sherlock, do you want to get your bottom smacked again? What did I just say about answering me when I ask you a question?”

In reply, Sherlock muttered something into the pillow that John didn’t quite catch, but he was pretty sure it included the word ‘rhetorical’. He was also pretty sure that it was delivered in a very sullen tone. And he was very sure indeed that it was not the answer he wanted.

Not hesitating, he smacked the spoon down twice in quick succession, still on those same two now rather pink spots high up on Sherlock’s thighs. He still wasn’t spanking at all hard, but the overlapping smacks obviously stung, because Sherlock flinched and whined in displeasure.

“That’s about enough cheek from you,” John told him. “You’re being punished, Sherlock, and when you’re being punished you do as you’re told. Now answer me properly, or you know what’ll happen.”

Sherlock made a sound of frustration and squirmed over John’s lap, shifting as if he was too agitated to keep still—although tellingly, he didn’t actually move out of position. His feet crossed, then promptly uncrossed again, and one foot kicked hard at the bed in an obvious display of temper.

And considering exactly what he was punishing Sherlock for at this very moment, John was certainly not about to let displays of temper pass unremarked upon.

“Sherlock Holmes, don’t you dare throw a tantrum when you’re being punished for doing that very thing,” he said, very sternly. “You’re already getting a spanking, and I don’t think you want to make it any worse than it’s already going to be. Now I’m going to ask you one more time, and then I’m going to count to three. If you don’t answer by three, then you’re getting six extra smacks.”

Even as he said it, a little corner of his mind was wryly reflecting that counting to three wasn’t something that Sherlock had included in his list of likely punishments, but it _was_ one of the ‘tried and true methods’ that John had experienced in his own childhood. Much like ear pinching and a dose of soap as punishment for swearing were, too—he and Sherlock hadn’t discussed those, either, but somehow John had found himself doing them. Just as Sherlock had predicted, he was indeed falling back on the methods of discipline he was familiar with from his own upbringing. He hadn’t even really thought about it before he did it, either; the ear pinching and the soap had just seemed like logical punishments, and counting to three was just synonymous, somewhere in his head, with ‘final, final warning’.

Well, if he was dealing with a child, at least. Or in this case, someone who had a remarkable tendency to act like a child, even though he wasn’t one.

Someone who was also apparently rather indignant about John’s method of supplying his final, final warning. “You’re _what?_ ” Sherlock demanded, and even muffled by the pillow as he was, John could hear the outraged disbelief in his tone.

“You heard me,” he replied evenly, doing his best to sound immoveable. “Now answer me, Sherlock. What do you think should happen if you throw a temper tantrum?” He paused just for a moment, then began the promised count. “One …”

Sherlock made another frustrated sound into his pillow, hugging it to his face as if he was trying to crush it, and this time he kicked both feet against the bed, slamming them down onto the mattress in an obvious fit of pique. The irony wasn’t lost on John; Sherlock was outraged by being counted at like a toddler, so he was registering his protest by … behaving like a toddler.

He ignored it this time, though, in favour of following through with his stated plan. “Six extra smacks, Sherlock,” he warned. “Do you really want six more on top of what you’re already going to get? Two.”

Angry huffing came from the vicinity of the pillow, which Sherlock was still clutching as if he wanted to murder it. Apart from that, though, he remained stubbornly silent.

“Last chance,” John told him sternly. “And then it’s extra.”

He waited a beat, but when Sherlock still didn’t answer John resigned himself to having to indeed hand out another six smacks—and then having to tackle the question all over again. Just as he opened his mouth to say ‘three’, however, Sherlock wrenched his head out of the pillow and snarled, “I should be spanked!”

It was certainly the right answer, but his tone left a lot to be desired. They’d be talking more about an appropriate attitude when Sherlock was being disciplined very shortly, John thought. For now, though, he simply let his voice become even sterner as he said, “What was that?”

But having said it once, Sherlock apparently felt it was beyond him to say it again. “You heard!” he cried indignantly, and flopped down to bury his face into the pillow again.

This time John didn’t just warn him. He pressed down more firmly on the small of Sherlock’s back and applied six rapid fire smacks with the spoon, all of them across the very tops of Sherlock’s thighs. None of the smacks were hard, but John made sure they were all sharp, flicking his wrist with each one to ensure that he maximised the sting without any real force.

And it certainly seemed like sharp and stinging was quite enough for Sherlock. He jumped with the first smack and gasped with the second, and by the time the last one fell he was squirming in obvious discomfort, twisting his hips and scrabbling unhappily at the duvet with his toes.

“You could have saved yourself that if you’d answered me a bit more politely,” John said firmly once he was finished. He rested the spoon back on Sherlock’s thigh, making him flinch a little. “Now again, and in a more civil tone, please. What do you think should happen if you throw a temper tantrum?”

Sherlock heaved a great, reluctant sigh, but it seemed that the smacks had been enough to convince him, at least for the moment. He rolled his head to the side, just enough so that he could talk without it being smothered by the pillow, and said woefully, “I should be spanked.”

“Better,” John said. “And quite correct, too. You should be spanked, which is why you’re over my knee right now. I’m not going to let you get away with throwing tantrums, Sherlock, especially not when you’re being disciplined. Tantrums will only earn you one thing, and that’s a sore bottom. Is that clear?”

Sherlock had turned his face back into the pillow, but he nodded, managing to look utterly forlorn even though John could only see the back of his head. “Yes, John,” he said. The words were surprisingly meek, despite being muffled by the pillow.

“Good,” John said, relieved that the sudden attack of stroppiness seemed to be over. “Moving on, then.” He patted Sherlock’s back with his free hand, a quick gesture of reassurance before he went back to the scolding.

It occurred to him then that he should perhaps warn Sherlock about just how much scolding there was going to be, too. This was going to be a rather more extended spanking than Sherlock was used to—with rather less actual spanking and much more telling off—and there might be less risk of Sherlock getting stroppy over it again if he knew what was coming.

With that in mind, John added, “We’re going to do things a bit differently this time, just to make that clear. You’ll get your spanking, but part of your punishment is going to be a good long scolding, too. I’ll be doing most of the talking, but when I ask you a question I expect you to answer it. Is that understood?”

Sherlock gave an unhappy little groan when he heard this, but made no protest apart from that. Instead he was silent for a moment after John finished, and then he answered again with that same surprising meekness, “Yes, John.” And then, unexpectedly, he added without any prompting, “I’ll be good.”

John blinked, surprised by the wording even more than the tone. He’d be good? Well, all right then. Apparently Sherlock had now decided that rather than getting stroppy about it, he was going to answer John’s juvenile-toned scolding in kind.

Not that John minded. He’d gladly take Sherlock being good, and if Sherlock wanted to use that wording, then that was fine by him.

“I’m glad to hear it,” he said, and gave Sherlock’s back another quick pat. “In that case, we’re going to talk for a bit now before we get back to your spanking. You just be good and listen.”

No reply from Sherlock this time, although he clutched his pillow a little tighter. John decided to take his silence as ‘being good and listening’ and forged ahead.

“Right then,” he said. “Let’s just start at the beginning, shall we? Our arrangement is that when you misbehave, you trust me to discipline you for it. You let me make the decisions about what punishment you deserve. You don’t have to like my decisions, but you will accept them without throwing tantrums about them. Won’t you?” he asked pointedly.

Sherlock sighed into his pillow, but nodded. “Yes, John,” the muffled voice replied.

“Good. Yes, you will,” John said. “You’ve developed a lot of bad habits, Sherlock. You’ve gone far too long with no one reining you in. You’ve got used to being able to throw your weight around, and throw tantrums when you don’t get your way, and too many people have given in to you. And that may have been what you wanted, but it wasn’t what you needed.”

John was putting into words things he’d been thinking for quite some time—almost since he’d first met Sherlock, really. It was only since he’d stepped up and become Sherlock’s disciplinarian that those thoughts had been translated into actions, but they’d already been there in the back of his mind. Too many people did give in to Sherlock, and ignored his bad behaviour in exchange for getting what they needed from him. Even Lestrade and Mycroft, who would both stand up to him sometimes, had a tendency to do that.

But John wouldn’t. He respected Sherlock’s talents, he found them admirable and astonishing, but he didn’t need or want to use them for his own purposes. There wouldn’t be any trade-offs with him, no ignoring of misbehaviour because he needed Sherlock to do something for him. And this left him in a unique position to be able to give Sherlock what he needed most—a guiding hand and someone to look after him.

The thought filled him with resolve, and he heard it in his tone as he kept speaking, his hand firming on Sherlock’s back. “Well, just in case you hadn’t worked it out yet, let me tell you that those days are over. You’re not going to be able to throw your weight around with me, Sherlock. I’m not going to give in to you just because you throw a tantrum, and I’m not going to walk away and leave you to it when you misbehave. I’m going to be here, giving you what you need. And what you need is someone who’ll look after you, and make sure you’re safe, and discipline you when you deserve it. From now on, that’s me. Understood?”

There was a long, silent pause, and then Sherlock’s curly head nodded against the pillow, very slowly. He spoke so softly that John could barely hear him, but he was just able to make out the reply as an obedient, “Understood.”

“Good,” John said. He’d become so thoughtful during that little speech that he’d all but dropped the more juvenile, scolding tone he’d been using. Still, perhaps that was for the best. He felt that it had needed saying, and he wanted Sherlock to know that he took it entirely seriously.

But that had been a decent interval of scolding—or of talking, at least—so now it was time to get back to the actual spanking part. “Right,” John went on, in a firmer tone. “In that case, let’s give you a little reminder.” He lifted the spoon again and tapped it warningly on Sherlock’s thigh, a little lower than where he’d been smacking before. “Six again, I think, right down here. Deep breath now.”

Sherlock had gone instantly tense again over his lap, and he quickly took the advised deep breath, pulling his head up a little to suck in air. John pressed down a little harder on Sherlock’s back, raised the spoon high and smacked it down sharply, right in the spot where he’d tapped. Even though he had moved onto unspanked territory, Sherlock still jumped as it landed, and gave an unhappy little squeak that actually made John falter for a moment before he hastily shored up his resolve, reminding himself sternly that he needed to be firm.

He delivered the remaining five smacks at a more measured pace this time, still spanking relatively lightly, but with a good snap to his wrist to maximise the sting. Sherlock had gone quiet again after that initial squeak, but he was squirming almost at once, gasping softly into his pillow and flinching every time the spoon came down.

The fact that the smacks weren’t at all hard probably made it feel even worse, John thought, not without sympathy. Sherlock would know perfectly well that he was getting a spanking that went right along with the scolding John was giving him, virtual baby-smacks, and with a lighter implement than John usually used too. And yet despite his efforts to keep still, or at least as much effort as he was willing to make right now, he couldn’t help but gasp and wriggle every time the spoon descended.

Not that John was surprised, given that Sherlock had been very soundly punished indeed just the day before. He’d chosen a lighter implement for just that reason—Sherlock was so sore already that even a mild spanking was going to feel much worse than it actually was. And indeed, the sixth and final smack must have felt particularly sharp, because Sherlock jerked over John’s knee, and kicked one foot hard against the mattress before hastily crossing his ankles together.

John rubbed the small of his back in brief comfort. “You can kick as much as you want to,” he reminded him, letting his tone gentle for a moment. “But for now it’s break time again. Remember, be good and listen. We’ve still got plenty to talk about.”

Sherlock heaved another martyred-sounding sigh, but he didn’t protest this time, and after a moment or two John felt some of the rigid tension ease out of him. He was still squirming a bit, his toes curling and uncurling as he shifted his feet in obvious discomfort, but he had relaxed enough to signal at least grudging acceptance of his situation. He was going to be over John’s knee until John said otherwise, and he knew it, and he was letting John know that he knew it.

“Good,” John said, giving Sherlock’s back another quick rub. “That’s good. You just keep that up while I’m talking.” He let his hand go still, resting it firmly in the small of Sherlock’s back, and spoke in a sterner tone. “Now, we’re going to talk a bit more about tantrums, and about why it’s not okay to have them.”

John planned to elaborate as much as he could on this point, since this really needed to be the main part of the scolding—it was, after all, the whole reason Sherlock was being punished in the first place. He was still a little unsure just how much he could find to elaborate about, but he decided to just forge ahead and do the best he could. He seemed to be doing all right so far with the scolding, if Sherlock’s reaction was any indication, so he’d try to just carry on the way he was going.

With that in mind, he decided to begin with a repeat of his opening line. “Tantrums,” he said sternly, “are not acceptable behaviour. And I know you know that, Sherlock, even if you choose to conveniently forget about it sometimes. So you ought to know too that when you do forget about it, I’m going to be here to remind you. Right?”

Sherlock gave a little huff, but replied with a dutiful, if muffled, “Right.” A moment later, he added without being prompted, “Yes, John.”

And there it was again, John thought, that almost formal response, which he certainly wasn’t demanding but which Sherlock seemed to want to offer. He wondered if it had been a childhood thing; he’d already noticed that Sherlock had started to respond to his more juvenile tone by answering in much the same way. Perhaps this was more of the same. Not that it bothered him, and Sherlock could respond however he wanted to so long as he kept it reasonably respectful, but it was interesting.

He wasn’t going to take the time to try to analyse it now, though. Right now he needed to focus on giving Sherlock a proper telling off. And since he already seemed to be starting over from the beginning, he decided he might as well carry on doing just that.

“All right,” he went on. “Now, we’ve already covered the difference between feeling angry and throwing a tantrum, but let’s go over it again just to be sure. It’s perfectly okay for you to be angry or upset about being disciplined. You have a right to your feelings, and I’ll never punish you for having them. However, I will punish you for throwing tantrums. Feelings versus behaviour, Sherlock. That’s the difference. You have the right to your feelings, but you don’t have the right to take them out on anyone nearby.”

Sherlock’s put upon sigh indicated that he didn’t much appreciate getting the same lecture twice, but John thought this point was genuinely important enough to merit going over again. He definitely didn’t want Sherlock thinking that he would be punished just for being angry or frustrated, and knowing how Sherlock sometimes became confused over emotional issues, John thought that was a legitimate concern. Not to mention, it really was the main point he was trying to put across here. Getting angry was okay, but throwing a screaming tantrum was not.

And with that little lecture delivered, it was time to follow up with an interval of spanking to drive the point home. This time he gave Sherlock four smacks, again spanking at a measured pace, a bit lower down still on Sherlock’s thighs. Although neither the new target nor the break while John was talking seemed to have made the smacks any easier for Sherlock to take, because he quickly began to squirm again, hugging his pillow tightly and beating out an unhappy little tattoo with his feet.

Once the four smacks had been duly delivered, John rested the spoon back on Sherlock’s thigh and briskly patted his back again to signal the next break. He felt Sherlock huff out a soft break of relief, and couldn’t resist giving him another reassuring pat or two before he took up the thread of his scolding again.

“All right,” he said, making sure that his voice was appropriately firm despite the pangs of sympathy. “Moving on. Next order of business is all the swearing you were doing. Now let’s get this straight too. In normal circumstances, I don’t care how much you swear.”

He really didn’t, either. It had been a bit strange to hear _Sherlock_ swearing like that, just because he usually didn’t, but John had been in the army after all; he’d heard every variation of swearing known to man and it had never bothered him. However, if he was going to be Sherlock’s authority figure, then he knew he couldn’t allow Sherlock to get away with screaming displays of disrespect while he was being disciplined.

He went on to explain that, speaking in a low, firm tone that left no room for argument. “But when you’re being punished, you don’t get to swear at me about it,” he said. “When you’ve misbehaved, you’ll accept the punishment that I decide you deserve. That’s what our arrangement is—I decide what your punishment is, and you accept that. I don’t expect you to be happy about it, but I do expect you to be obedient and reasonably respectful. If you’re not, then you’ll be punished again, on top of what you’ve already earned. Is that understood?”

Sherlock nodded, his face still pressed firmly into the pillow. “Yes, John,” he mumbled, barely audible. “Understood.”

“Good,” John said. “And just to make sure …”

His hand went firm on Sherlock’s back again, and he followed up that little bit of scolding with another four mild but stinging smacks to Sherlock’s thighs, moving back up this time. Apparently the spanking was getting steadily more uncomfortable, especially on top of areas that had already felt the wooden spoon, because Sherlock gasped with the first smack, squeaked with the second and kicked his feet against the mattress for the last two, wriggling from side to side in obvious discomfort.

But now it was time to go back to the scolding. John was starting to get the rhythm of it now; a brief telling off over some aspect of the tantrum and then a few smacks to follow it up, never hard, but definitely enough to sting. He still wasn’t sure just how many aspects he’d be able to think of for the scolding part, but at least for now he had a few more things immediately in mind. After that, well, if he had to he’d just improvise.

He patted Sherlock’s back again, waiting for him to relax a little, then continued on. “Right,” he said. “Now we’re going to talk in more general terms. I don’t, in general, much appreciate being shouted at, sworn at or having things thrown at me. No one likes that, and I’m no exception. Now I understand that there are going to be bad days, and everyone loses their temper sometimes. I’m no exception to that either. But we still need to try to show respect for each other and treat other decently. Don’t we?”

His tone was pointed, making it clear that he expected an answer, and Sherlock sighed into his pillow but dutifully provided it. “Yes, John,” he agreed quietly.

“Yes,” John said. “Exactly. Now I told you when we talked about the rules that I don’t expect you to be a model of politeness, and I meant it. I’m not going to punish you for just being who you are. But I also told you that I’m not going to put up with your stroppy tantrums, and I meant that too. So if you don’t like being smacked, then you need to try to remember that. Don’t you?”

Sherlock squirmed, hugging his pillow tightly to his face as if John’s tone was almost as uncomfortable as the spanking was, but nevertheless gave the obedient reply. “Yes, John.”

“Good,” John said firmly. “And this is to help you remember.”

With that, he swiftly administered another two sharp smacks to Sherlock’s thighs, the second of which pulled a plaintive whine from Sherlock and started him wriggling all over again.

John carried on speaking as soon as the smacks had been delivered, not wanting to lose the thread of his topic. “And just to make this point very clear,” he went on, “I don’t like having tantrums thrown at me in general, but I’m definitely not going to put up with it when you’re being punished. You’ve earned the punishment you’re getting, and throwing a fit about it won’t earn you anything except more punishment. Right?”

Sherlock heaved another disconsolate sounding sigh. “Yes, John.”

“Right,” John confirmed, and promptly planted another pair of smacks directly over the last pair. This elicited still more unhappy squirming from Sherlock, whose thighs were now starting to turn a rather vivid shade of pink in all the spots John had been spanking him. John was genuinely sympathetic to how much it had to sting—how much it obviously did sting, from the way Sherlock was reacting—but he was committed now. Sherlock had earned this and he was going to get it, so John firmed his resolve, hardened his heart to Sherlock’s distress, and kept going.

“And it’s not just me you need to show basic respect for, either,” he went on. “What about Mrs Hudson? Do you think she enjoyed having a tantrum like that going on right above her head, having to listen to you shouting and swearing and throwing a fit?”

John knew very well how fond Sherlock was of Mrs Hudson—and that he really didn’t like upsetting her, for all that he managed to inadvertently do it on a fairly regular basis. So he wasn’t surprised when Sherlock’s muffled reply of, “No,” sounded genuinely sheepish.

“No,” he agreed. “And I know you don’t mean to upset her, but I want you to try to consider her feelings in the future. All right?”

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed at once, nodding into his pillow, and without even a sigh this time to indicate how put upon he was feeling.

“Good,” John said. He pressed down on Sherlock’s back again in warning, and this time he gave him another full six smacks, still mild, but delivered quickly and sharply. And there was no doubt that Sherlock felt them, because by the time the last one came down he was kicking frantically at the bed, clutching his pillow like a lifeline and somehow managing to wriggle like an eel while still keeping himself mostly in position.

John wasn’t finished yet, though. Sherlock’s obvious distress notwithstanding, the fact was that John really was spanking him very lightly, and they still had a way to go yet before he would be ready to call this done.

So he kept it up, going over every point he thought he could make a decent reprimand out of, and finding himself privately rather amazed at just how much he was able to think of to say. Sherlock had a bad habit of throwing tantrums when he didn’t get his way, and John wasn’t going to put up with it anymore. Sherlock needed to work on more constructive ways of dealing with his feelings that didn’t involve throwing a fit. His behaviour affected more people than just himself, and he needed to remember that. And all of these points were duly reinforced with at least a couple of sharp smacks, and while they were never hard, John could tell just from Sherlock’s increasingly unhappy responses that the cumulative effect was getting quite uncomfortable indeed.

Finally, John got to the point where he felt he’d just about exhausted his options in terms of scolding about tantrums in general, and about the more general aspects of this tantrum. He’d been deliberately saving the more particular aspects of Sherlock’s tantrum—those being certain things Sherlock had actually said while he was having it—until last. Some firm points needed to be made there, and John hadn’t wanted those points to blend in to all the other scolding he’d been doing.

He thought it was getting to be about time to wrap the spanking up, too. Sherlock had been over his lap for a good long time by John’s standards, so to Sherlock it must surely feel like it had been going on forever. And his distress had been noticeably increasing during the last couple of times John had paused in his scolding to spank him, which wasn’t surprising given the smarting shade of pink that Sherlock’s thighs had become. Every smack made him whine and wriggle now, and he was constantly alternating kicking and scrabbling at the duvet with his toes, as if he simply couldn’t keep his feet still for even a moment. John was pretty sure that Sherlock had also been starting to sniffle into his pillow for the last few, despite obvious attempts to stifle it.

All right, then. Time to address the specifics of what Sherlock had been howling while he tore up his lines and threw things. John tapped the wooden spoon ominously on the back of Sherlock’s thigh, and Sherlock flinched at the contact and squirmed.

“We’re almost done,” John told him. “But we’ve got a few more things to talk about first.”

A muted whine rose up from the pillow, and John applied another, firmer tap with the spoon. “None of that. You deserve everything you’re getting.”

Even as he spoke, though, he gave Sherlock’s back another brief rub. That whine had sounded distinctly tearful, and John suspected that Sherlock wouldn’t last much longer before he broke down entirely.

But that small bit of comfort aside, he made sure his voice was stern when he spoke again. “You said some things when you were throwing your tantrum that we need to address before we finish this,” he said. “First of all, I believe you made the claim that you ‘didn’t even do anything that bad’.” He paused weightily to let that sink in. “I believe you also claimed that it was ‘just a bus’, and that you were _fine_.”

John’s deeply disapproving tone made it quite clear what he thought of these claims, and he felt Sherlock tense over his lap, as if sensing that this wasn’t going to go well for him.

And rightly so, John thought rather grimly. He knew Sherlock had been angry, and most likely he hadn’t been thinking about what he was saying, but if anything that made it even worse. Sherlock had been saying what he felt without censoring it for what John wanted to hear, and apparently what Sherlock felt was that his just-a-bus adventure hadn’t actually been anything that bad.

And since Sherlock’s not-just-a-bus-thank-you adventure had damn near given John a heart attack, and since he’d already done his best with this punishment to show just how seriously he took Sherlock needlessly risking his life like that, he hadn’t been impressed at all to hear it dismissed so blithely, even in the midst of a tantrum.

He pressed down a little more firmly on the small of Sherlock’s back, and raised the wooden spoon. “What you did,” he said very sternly, “was very foolish and needlessly dangerous.”

He smacked the spoon down, and this time he didn’t target Sherlock’s thighs. The spoon came down low on Sherlock’s bottom, right where the majority of the cane marks were, and it wasn’t just a baby spank this time but a good solid whack.

If John had had any doubts about just how much the wooden spoon would sting over those stripes, then Sherlock’s reaction would have instantly laid them to rest. He bucked over John’s lap, his head jerking up out of the pillow in shock, and this time he didn’t just whine or squeak but instead let out a heartfelt yelp of real distress, both feet kicking up off the bed in what John would bet was purely involuntary reaction.

John winced inwardly—because bloody hell, he’d bet that had stung—but he forced himself to keep going. He repeated the smack on the other cheek this time, and Sherlock jerked and yelped again before hastily burying his head back into his pillow. He hugged it tightly to his face and squirmed, twisting his hips from side to side and scrabbling frantically at the duvet with his toes.

Steeling himself, John grimly carried on with his scolding, holding the spoon poised high above Sherlock’s bottom. “You risked your safety and even your life for no good reason. You could have been terribly hurt. You could have been killed. It _was_ that bad, and it was _not_ just a bus!”

He brought the spoon down sharply with both emphasised words, planting two more solid smacks across Sherlock’s cheeks. Sherlock managed not to yelp this time, but he jumped hard and began kicking desperately at the mattress again, beating out a frantic tattoo with both feet that left John in no doubt about how much he must be stinging.

“I know it hurts,” he said, trying to keep the sympathy out of his tone and mostly succeeding. “And I don’t like hurting you. But if a sore bottom is the only way to get through to you, then that’s what I’m going to give you. I will not let you risk your life for _no good reason_.”

Each of those last three words came accompanied by a good, sharp smack to Sherlock’s bottom—not quite as hard as the first ones had been, but still low down across the most tender and cane-marked areas.

And if Sherlock’s reaction was anything to go by, they were quite hard enough. His head jerked up out of the pillow again, and he jumped so violently that he actually scooted forward a few inches on John’s lap. For a moment it seemed like he was too shocked to do anything but gasp, and then he let out a pitiful yelp, this time not even trying to stifle it. He began tossing his hips again, as if he was trying to shake off the burn the spoon had left behind, and kicked at the mattress hard enough to make the whole thing bounce.

John gave him a few moments, waiting until Sherlock’s frantic writhing had subsided back into wriggling again, then tapped him lightly on the outer hip with the spoon. “Get back into position, Sherlock.”

Sherlock groaned in protest, his head drooping miserably over, although not into, his pillow. He looked and sounded utterly forlorn, and John had to be very stern with himself indeed to keep from just ending it then and there. As it was, it took considerable effort for him to keep his voice firm and steady when he spoke again.

“Almost done,” he said. “But for now, I want you back in position. Come on. Do as you’re told.”

Sherlock gulped in another shuddering breath, but he obediently wriggled himself backwards, so that his bottom was once again centred on John’s lap. He pressed his face back into his pillow, clutching at it desperately, his feet still scrabbling at the duvet in obvious distress.

“Good,” John said. “Now you’re going to answer some questions for me.”

That announcement was answered with another tearful whine from the depths of the pillow. “John,” Sherlock groaned. “Please, no!” Even muffled by the pillow as it was, his voice was trembling as much as he was, and he sounded right on the verge of tears.

Even though he was determined to remain stern, John couldn’t resist patting Sherlock’s back, trying to offer a bit of comfort. “Almost done,” he said again. “But I want you to answer my questions, Sherlock.” He took a deep breath and deliberately firmed his resolve, firming his voice as well to match it. “Now tell me: was what you did yesterday ‘not that bad’?”

He raised the spoon, quite ready to apply some firm encouragement if Sherlock hesitated to answer. Sherlock apparently felt the movement, because he gasped and immediately burst out, “No!” A pause, then he added, “I mean yes! I mean—it was that bad!”

“Yes, it _was_ ,” John said, and brought the spoon down sharply. He didn’t smack nearly as hard this time, but poor Sherlock was so close to breaking down that John suspected he could probably have tapped him and it would have had the same effect. Sherlock jerked over his lap as the smack connected, let out a choked, half-smothered whine, and then, reaching the end of his resistance, burst into miserable, overwrought tears.

Despite his sympathy—and his longing to just gather Sherlock into a hug right then and there—John forced himself to keep going, knowing that he needed to finish it. “And was it ‘just a bus’?” he demanded.

“No!” Sherlock gulped out into the pillow, in between muffled sobs and sniffling. “No, it was bad!”

“Yes, it was,” John said again, although without the accompanying smack this time. Sherlock really had just about had enough at this point. John was just determined to fully make _his_ point, before he brought the spanking to an official close.

“What you did was very, very dangerous,” he said, his voice very stern. “And don’t you ever let me hear you playing it down like that again, do you understand me?”

Sherlock nodded frantically into his pillow. “Yes!” he sobbed out.

“Good,” John said. “And one last thing. The _most important_ thing. Are you listening to me, Sherlock?”

More frantic nodding into the pillow, accompanied by snuffling sobs. That would do; John wasn’t going to insist on a verbal answer. He just wanted to make sure that Sherlock heard this, because he meant what he’d said. This really _was_ the most important thing, which was why he’d saved it for last.

“Good,” he said. “Then hear this. You also said that you’d done much worse things than what you did yesterday, and that no one cared. Now I don’t know if that’s true, but I do know that I’m here now, and _I_ care. Do you understand me, Sherlock? I care. And _because_ I care, I’m not going to let you get away with doing things that could get you hurt or killed. So you’d just better get used to that, Sherlock Holmes!”

John had been planning to follow that up with one final smack, but Sherlock’s tears had ratcheted up a notch even as he was speaking, the soft and sniffling sobs abruptly turning into real, gulping heaves. John didn’t know if it was what he’d said that had triggered it or if Sherlock was just getting increasingly worked up now that he’d opened the floodgates, but either way, he instantly decided that another smack wasn’t necessary, not even to make a final point.

With relief, he tossed the wooden spoon down to the end of the bed and immediately began to rub the small of Sherlock’s back with his now free hand, sliding his other hand up to do the same on Sherlock’s trembling shoulders.

“All right,” he soothed, all sternness gone. “All right, Sherlock, it’s all over. All done now. You just cry it all out. I’m right here, and as soon as you’re ready, you can have a good long cuddle.”

Sherlock’s only response was to continue to cry forlornly into his pillow, clutching it tightly to his face as if he was trying to smother his tears in it. He was still squirming, shifting his hips restlessly and scrabbling at the bed with his toes, although that last was somewhat hampered by the fact that his tracksuit bottoms were now hopelessly tangled around his feet. They’d been at his knees to start with, but all of Sherlock’s wriggling around had gradually sent them to his ankles, and it looked as if that last spate of kicking had almost kicked them off entirely.

Not that it was surprising that poor Sherlock had been doing so much squirming. John had only spanked lightly, except for at the very end, but he’d drawn the spanking out for a good long time, and it showed. The tops of Sherlock’s thighs were now a bright, smarting pink, and the rosy colour extended up onto the very lowest part of his striped bottom, from the smacks John had given him right at the end. He had to be stinging terribly, so it was little wonder he couldn’t seem to keep still.

He was also sobbing in a truly heartrending fashion, no matter that the sobs were heavily muffled by a pillow. John thought he had managed to do a very good job of keeping his disciplinarian face firmly in place throughout the spanking, but Sherlock’s weeping sounded so mournful that it was seriously tugging at his heartstrings. He had said ‘as soon as you’re ready’ for cuddle time, but he wasn’t sure if Sherlock would actually be able to tell him, and all of John’s instincts were saying that Sherlock was quite ready to be comforted now.

Deciding to go with his instincts, since they tended to be reasonably good and he really, really wanted to give Sherlock a hug, John switched from rubbing Sherlock’s back to patting him in gentle warning.

“Cuddle time now,” he said. “Don’t worry about moving, I’ll move around you. I’ll just be a minute and then you can have a proper hug. That’ll feel much better, won’t it?”

There was no reply from Sherlock except for more half-smothered sobbing, but then John hadn’t expected one. He put his hands back behind him for leverage, straightened his legs and began to carefully shift himself backwards. The manoeuvre was a bit awkward, but when Sherlock wasn’t in much of a state to get up, John had learnt that it was easier to simply wriggle out from underneath him.

Once he’d scooted back far enough that his legs were free, he wasted no time in lying down beside Sherlock and tugging gently on the pillow that he was still clinging to. “Come on, Sherlock,” he urged gently. “All ready now. Come out of that pillow and let me give you a proper cuddle.”

Again there was no response from Sherlock, and it seemed no intention of emerging from the pillow either, since he continued to cry into it without even a hint of looking up. John tugged a little more firmly on it, encouraging him with gentle words all the while.

“Sherlock, come on now. It’s cuddle time. I’m much nicer to hug than a pillow is, remember? Come on, you don’t need it now, you can hold on to me instead. You’d like a cuddle, wouldn’t you? It’ll help you feel much better.”

This time he was rewarded by Sherlock very slowly releasing the death grip he had on the pillow, allowing John to gently pull it away. As soon as he lost his hold on it, Sherlock promptly buried his face in his folded arms instead, his sobs only sounding all the more heartbroken now that they were no longer muffled by the pillow.

The sound pulled every scrap of John’s caretaking instincts to the fore, and he wasted no time in gathering Sherlock into a comforting hug. Sherlock immediately latched onto him, burying his face in John’s shoulder and wrapping an arm tightly around his waist to cling to him. His weeping was once again muffled, but it sounded no less forlorn for being half-smothered by John’s shoulder.

“That’s it,” John said, his voice dropping automatically into his low, soothing cuddle time murmur. “That’s right, you just cry it all out. I’m right here. You just hold onto me. And I’ll hold onto you, and it’ll be all better before you know it.”

Hearing himself, he realised that he was pitching his tone to an even more juvenile level than he usually did, probably as a holdover from the way he’d been talking to Sherlock during his spanking. But then, this was cuddle time, and Sherlock was completely overwrought and he badly needed to be comforted, and it just felt right, somehow, to talk to him like that.

And Sherlock obviously didn’t object to how John was doing it, since he responded to it by clinging to John even more tightly, clutching at John’s shirt and pressing himself as close as he could get. He was trembling like a leaf, still sobbing into John’s shoulder, and John found himself making hushed, tender sounds in between the soothing litany of words.

“Shhh … oh, there, there, it’s all right. It’s all right, it’s all over now. I know it was awful, but it’s all over. All finished. You’re okay, Sherlock. I’m right here, and I’ll look after you.”

He was hugging Sherlock tightly to him, one hand resting on the back of his neck, the other on the shaking shoulders. He slid the top hand further up, cradling the back of Sherlock’s head for a moment before he began gently carding his fingers through the wild curls. With the other hand, he began to rub the spot in between Sherlock’s shoulder blades, his palm moving slowly and soothingly back and forth.

“There, there,” he said, half crooning it, and never mind that he sounded like he was talking to a six-year-old, because his instincts were telling him that Sherlock needed comforting and whatever worked, worked. “It’s all over now. I know it hurts, but it’ll feel better soon, and I’m right here for you to hold on to.”

Sherlock was doing just that, too. His hand was wrapped tightly around a fold of John’s shirt, clinging to him, and his face was completely buried in the curve of John’s shoulder—and as usual, John had no idea how he was managing to breathe.

He felt Sherlock squirm suddenly and give a little shudder, and while Sherlock’s head didn’t lift by so much as a fraction, the desolate sobbing seemed to become even more miserable. He had to be seriously stinging, John thought with a sharp pang of sympathy.

“I know,” he soothed again, rubbing Sherlock’s back a little more firmly, trying to ease him through the pain. “I know it’s awfully sore. But you were very brave, and it’ll start to feel better very soon, you’ll see.”

Sherlock had been trying to cuddle even closer to him, if such a thing was even possible, but at that he shook his head in vehement denial into John’s shoulder. Puzzled, John stroked the curly head, his fingers trailing softly down onto the back of Sherlock’s neck.

“Yes, it will,” he said consolingly. “I know it might not feel like it right now, but it will feel better soon. And when you’re feeling a bit better, we’ll put some arnica cream on it, and that will help even more. You’ll see.”

But Sherlock only shook his head again, even harder this time, his curls bouncing with the motion. John heard him gulp several times, as if he was trying to swallow back the sobs that were still coming thick and fast, before he finally managed to hiccup out, “Not—b-brave!”

_Oh_ , John thought, in sudden realisation. Of course. He had misunderstood exactly which part of what he’d said Sherlock was denying. That made much more sense, really—after all, Sherlock had had much the same reaction after breaking down during his caning yesterday. John could remember all too vividly the look on Sherlock’s face, hard and pre-emptively defensive, his cheeks burning with shame at having lost control so completely.

And if anything, this must feel even worse, John thought sympathetically. He might not be able to deduce Sherlock’s thoughts the way Sherlock could his, but he thought he could make some pretty good guesses. And right now he guessed that Sherlock was probably thinking that it was one thing to break down during a severe punishment with the cane, but quite another to break down during a mild spanking with a wooden spoon, even if he was already sore when he got it.

John didn’t agree with that, of course. He had a very good idea of just how sore Sherlock was, from his reactions as well as from actually seeing the damage, and he was under no illusions about just how much the spanking he’d just meted out must have stung. The pain wouldn’t last long, no, but he knew full well it had bloody hurt at the time.

So, more reassurance was obviously required. John had, of course, done his level best to reassure Sherlock after his caning that there was no need to feel ashamed, that he was supposed to cry on John’s shoulder after punishment—indeed, that it was the whole point of cuddle time. And for that matter, John needed it just as much as Sherlock did, since he was pretty sure he wouldn’t have been able to do this at all if he wasn’t able to comfort Sherlock afterwards.

He’d thought too that his assurances had gone at least some way towards convincing Sherlock, since he’d settled down afterwards and had been quite happy to be cuddled more. But considering just how attached Sherlock was to his dignity, and just how unused he was to losing control like this, John wouldn’t be surprised if those reassurances needed to be repeated on a regular basis.

And that was fine. John could do that. He could just fit it right into his cuddle time comforting, and repeat it over and over again until Sherlock accepted it. And he would start right now.

“Yes, you were brave,” he insisted, gently but firmly. “You took that really well. Crying doesn’t mean you weren’t brave. I told you that yesterday, remember? You’re supposed to cry on my shoulder afterwards. I really don’t think I could do this if you didn’t let me comfort you when it was over.”

He’d hoped the reminder of his reassurance yesterday would help, but Sherlock made a smothered sound of frustration and shook his head again, while somehow still managing to keep it firmly wedged against John’s shoulder.

“Yesterday was—different!” Sherlock insisted in turn, still very obviously struggling to get the words out through increasingly distressed tears. He made another frustrated sound and turned his face to the side, just enough so that he could speak more clearly. “That was—the cane. That really _hurt_. This was—this was a—a baby spanking!”

Sherlock sounded half indignant, half mortified and utterly miserable, and as soon as he’d said his piece he instantly turned his face back into John’s shoulder, pressing himself close as if he was trying to hide there. His sobs were coming in hard little bursts now, with trembling pauses in between as he tried in vain to stifle them. Even as John watched, Sherlock gulped in a breath and held it, but only moments later was forced to release it again for another spate of hiccupping sobs.

Of course, that didn’t stop him from trying to hold his breath again just as soon as he could get enough air to do it, despite the fact that his efforts to stop crying were clearly only making it worse. There was something heartbreakingly childish about it; it was something John could so easily imagine a much younger Sherlock doing, and he found himself responding to it almost automatically, his voice switching from his cuddle time murmur to a firmer, more authoritative tone.

“That’s enough of that,” he said. “Stop trying to hold your breath, Sherlock, it’s only going to make you feel worse. You need to just cry it all out, and then you can talk if you want to, but it can wait until you’re ready. For right now, it’s cuddle time, which means you get to cry on my shoulder as much as you like, and I get to cuddle you until you feel better. End of story, right?”

As he was speaking, he slid his hand up to stroke Sherlock’s hair again, smoothing the mop of curls while his other hand kept rubbing Sherlock’s back. He felt Sherlock press up a little into his touch, felt him try to cuddle still closer into John’s embrace, although he wasn’t surprised when he also got a half-hearted protest, in the form of a shaken head and a half-sobbed, “But …”

“No buts,” John told him firmly. “You do as you’re told, Sherlock Holmes. This is cuddle time, which means you’re allowed to cry as much as you need to. Now you just let me look after you, no arguments, unless you’d like a few more smacks for being disobedient.”

“No!” Sherlock shook his head hard at that, and the hand that he had wrapped tightly around John’s waist abruptly let go and shot back behind him, hovering palm up over his bottom in an obvious attempt to ward off any further spanking. John managed not to smile at the gesture, but it was a very near thing.

“I didn’t think so,” he said. “You be good and do as you’re told, then. No more talking. I’m going to talk, and you’re going to listen as best you can, and let me look after you. Yes?”

That got him—finally—a hesitant nod instead of a headshake, and John patted his back in approval. “Good. Let’s have that hand back, then. Come on, you hold on to me, and I’ll hold onto you.”

There was a pause, and then Sherlock’s hand slowly crept back from where it was poised protectively over his bottom, sliding almost shyly across John’s belly and around his waist. John felt Sherlock’s fingers grip his shirt again and smiled, stroking Sherlock’s hair and murmuring more reassurance.

“That’s it, that’s the way. Very good. You hold onto me as tight as you like. That’s what I’m here for. You need a good long cuddle, and then you’ll start feeling better.”

He felt Sherlock’s arm tighten around his waist, and Sherlock’s fingers tighten around the fold of his shirt, and then all at once Sherlock was back to where he had been before, clinging to John and sobbing into his shoulder, the kind of gulping, overwrought crying that even very determined breath holding would never have been able to stop.

Those miserable sobs were more than a little heartrending to listen to, but even so John welcomed them, knowing that Sherlock needed the release. And he was more than willing to go back to doing his part to help things along, by stroking Sherlock’s hair, rubbing his back and keeping up a soft litany of comfort and praise.

“That’s good,” he told Sherlock gently. “That’s very good. That’s right, you just cry it all out. You were very brave during your spanking, and now you get to cry on my shoulder until it feels better. And I get to comfort you and look after you.” He thought it was important to keep emphasising that, the fact that he needed cuddle time as much as Sherlock did.

“And you don’t have to be embarrassed about crying, or worry that it means you’re not brave,” he added. “You are brave, and you took your spanking very bravely. I know it hurt very much, but you did really well. And it’s all over now, and you just need to cry it all out and let me take care of you. That’s my good Sherlock.”

_My_ good Sherlock. Bloody hell. John had a moment of wondering if that sounded rather inappropriately possessive, but then just as quickly dismissed the thought. He already knew that this relationship that had developed between them was unique—Sherlock would never, ever have let anyone else do this to him, do this _for_ him. John was the only one he trusted enough, the only one he allowed this close, and Sherlock needed this, needed him. And if John found himself sounding a little possessive from time to time, knowing that—well, it would be only natural.

And after all, he added wryly to himself, it wasn’t like Sherlock didn’t get possessive over him too, as was evidenced whenever he had to share John’s attention with—well, anyone, really.

The thought made him smile, and he cuddled Sherlock a little closer—or tried to, at least. He wasn’t sure if it was actually possible for Sherlock to get any closer, the way he was wedged up against John’s side. But that was good, because Sherlock desperately needed to be held close and cuddled, and John turned all his attention to doing just that, all the while reassuring him over and over that his punishment was all finished, and he was good, and he was very brave, and it was all right to cry as much as he needed to.

It took a good while—Sherlock had worked himself up into a hell of a state—but the desolate sobbing did finally begin to subside, gradually tapering off into hiccups, then into hitching breaths and sniffling. The overwrought trembling subsided with it, and little by little Sherlock’s breathing slowed and evened out until there was only the barest trace of a hitch to it. Even when his tears had quieted, though, Sherlock continued to cling to John, holding onto him tightly and showing absolutely no inclination to lift his face out of John’s shoulder.

John had no intention of hurrying him—quite the opposite, in fact; he was happy to cuddle Sherlock for as long as he wanted it. He did want to get him under the covers, though, now that Sherlock had calmed down enough that John could let go of him for a minute. If he followed his usual pattern, Sherlock was likely to get sleepy and need at least a short nap, and John wanted him covered up and settled before that happened.

“Sherlock,” he said, patting Sherlock’s back to get his attention. “We need to get you into bed now, okay? I don’t want you getting cold.”

Sherlock made a soft, protesting noise, clinging a little more tightly to John’s shirt, and John patted him again in reassurance. “Cuddle time’s not over unless you want it to be, I just want to get you covered up. Come on, just let go for a minute and let me help you into bed, then you can have more cuddles.”

Sherlock gave a reluctant sounding whine, but he did release his hold on John’s shirt, allowing him to extricate himself. As soon as John moved away from him, Sherlock immediately buried his face in the crook of his arm instead, while John pulled back the covers on the bed, or at least on the side that Sherlock wasn’t lying on.

“Come on,” he encouraged. “Just shift over a bit, so I can put the covers over you. That way you can sleep for a bit if you want without getting cold.”

Sherlock whined again, sounding miserably put upon, but he did obediently wriggle sideways, managing to keep his face firmly buried in his folded arms all the while. As soon as he’d moved enough to allow it, John gently pulled the covers up over him, then promptly slid under them himself and gathered Sherlock back into his arms.

“That’s the way,” he said, as Sherlock instantly pressed himself close and hid his face against John’s shoulder once again. “You can have as much cuddle time as you want. We’re not in a rush.”

His hands had already settled back into their previous positions, one on Sherlock’s head and the other on his back. Sherlock made a rather more contented sound as John began to stroke his hair again, and nuzzled his face against John’s shoulder, his hand stealing back around John’s waist to reclaim a handful of his shirt.

“That’s the way,” John repeated fondly. “That’s good. You hold on to me. I’m right here, and I’ll be right here for as long as you need me.” He carded his fingers gently through Sherlock’s hair, smiling when Sherlock nuzzled his shoulder again.

“Want me to rub your back again too?” John asked, and Sherlock nodded, making a soft, affirmative sound. John obliged at once, his palm sliding back and forth across Sherlock’s shoulders, and Sherlock made a sleepy, contented little noise that was almost a purr.

“Good,” John encouraged him. He was back to using his cuddle time voice again, low and gentle and soothing. “Very good. You just try to relax.”

He turned his head enough so that he could press a light kiss into Sherlock’s curly hair, and let his voice soften even more, murmuring close to Sherlock’s ear. “It’s nice to just be reassured sometimes, isn’t it? And that’s what cuddle time is about, for you to feel comforted and reassured. Your punishment is all over, and now you get to feel safe and cared for. Because I’m right here, and I’ll look after you, and I’ll keep you safe.”

Sherlock’s hand tightened almost convulsively around the fold of shirt he was clutching, and he made a plaintive little sound into John’s shoulder. John wasn’t sure if it was a request for more reassurance or just a complaint about his sore bottom, but he decided to go with covering both.

“I know,” he said, stroking Sherlock’s hair tenderly. “I know it’s sore. But you were very brave, and it’ll feel better soon. And I’m right here to look after you. I will keep you safe, Sherlock, whether you like it or not.” He smiled and kissed the top of Sherlock’s head again. “Sometimes you won’t like it, because you’re stubborn and you like having your own way,” he added fondly. “But I’m going to do it anyway, so you’d just better get used to it, or you’re going to be spending a lot of time with a sore bottom.”

The reminder made Sherlock squirm against him and give a little whine of protest, and John patted his back in reassurance, hushing him. “Shhhh, it’s all right. No more spanking now. Just cuddle time, just me looking after you and keeping you safe. You just relax, and let me take care of you.”

Sherlock gave a soft sigh at that and obeyed, going limp against him once more, snuggling into the warmth of John’s side. John sighed too, in matching contentment, and after a few moments he let his eyes close. He kept up his murmured comfort, though, along with the back rubbing and the hair stroking, and just let himself enjoy the moment, and the closeness, and having his own lunatic genius to cuddle.

Sherlock seemed to be enjoying it just as much, since he was snuggled up as close to John as he could get without actually climbing on top of him, and despite having his face still firmly pressed against John’s shoulder, his breathing had become slow and calm and even. It was finally so regular that John thought he must have fallen asleep—he usually did after cuddle time, even if it was only for a nap.

Not wanting to disturb Sherlock if he had managed to drop off, John left off the comforting words and let his hands still, although he kept both of them where they were. A few moments later, though, Sherlock proved that he wasn’t actually asleep after all, when he turned his face to the side and said very softly, “That was awful.”

John opened his eyes and cast a glance downwards, but Sherlock had turned his head just the bare minimum to allow him to speak without being muffled, and had tucked it down, so that John could only see the hint of one flushed cheek under the messy tumble of curls. Sherlock wanted to talk, apparently, but he didn’t want to look at John while they were talking, at least not yet.

For his part, John didn’t pretend to misunderstand, knowing full well that Sherlock was talking about the punishment, not the much more enjoyable cuddle time that had followed. “I know it was,” he said, his voice gentle, but not regretful. “And I’m sorry that it had to happen, but it wasn’t meant to be pleasant, I’m afraid.”

“It was awful,” Sherlock repeated. His voice was still thick and hoarse from all the crying he’d done, and sounding just on the edge of sulky now. “You gave me a—a baby spanking. And you pulled my ear, and you washed my mouth out with soap. And you _counted_ at me.”

It was a very indignant list of grievances, and John patted Sherlock’s back in gentle consolation. “Yeah, I did,” he agreed. “And I know none of it was any fun.”

Sherlock huffed—at the understatement, John suspected. “I told you you’d fall back on all the methods you know from your childhood,” he said, his tone now somewhere between sullen and triumphant.

It was the note of triumph that made John chuckle, because it was just so typically Sherlock to get in an ‘I told you so’ even while he sulked over being punished. “Yeah, you did,” he said. “And you were right as usual. I did it without even thinking.” He patted Sherlock again, adding with just a hint of gentle teasing, “Although I’m afraid you’re going to have to take the credit for the lines. You were the one who put that idea in my head.”

Sherlock gave another indignant huff. “I bet you’d have thought of it anyway.”

“I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or not,” John said mildly. He couldn’t quite keep the amusement out of his tone, and he cuddled Sherlock a bit closer in apology, running an affectionate hand through his hair. Despite his current sulkiness, Sherlock sighed in pleasure and pressed up into his touch.

There was silence for a few moments, and then Sherlock suddenly spoke again. In another of his mercurial changes of mood, the sulkiness had vanished from his tone, and now he sounded genuinely sheepish as he said very quietly, “I’m sorry I was bad.”

“Apology accepted,” John said automatically, blinking a little at the wording. ‘I’ll be good’, Sherlock had said earlier, and now ‘I’m sorry I was bad’. There was a definite juvenile tone to both of those statements, and that was … telling? Significant? John wasn’t sure. He’d have to put some thought into it, but for right now, he suddenly felt quite strongly that he needed to offer a correction, one that he suspected might be rather important for Sherlock to hear.

“Apology accepted,” he said again, more firmly. “But you weren’t bad, Sherlock. You’re not bad. You just misbehave.”

There was another long moment of silence, as if Sherlock was mulling that over. Then he said in an even softer tone, “Lots of people think I’m bad.”

Oh, Christ. Sherlock’s voice was level, but John knew he wasn’t imagining the note of hurt there, buried under the pretence of quiet indifference.

His heart turned over in sudden, painful sympathy, and he silently vowed to himself that he was never, ever going to call Sherlock ‘bad’. He didn’t think he’d actually done so—he’d been using words like ‘disobedient’ or ‘misbehaving’—but from now on he was going to make damn sure that he didn’t. He never wanted to do anything that was going to put that kind of hurt in Sherlock’s voice.

Very gently, he let his hand slide around from where it was cupping the back of Sherlock’s head, turning it to brush his knuckles tenderly down Sherlock’s cheek. “I’m not lots of people,” he said, his voice quiet but very firm. “And I know you better than they do. You’re not bad, Sherlock. Trust me on that.”

Silence again, stretching out between them. Then, abruptly, something in Sherlock seemed to relax, the tension leaving him in one quick, soft sigh. “I do trust you,” he said, and much to John’s relief that awful undertone of hurt had left his voice, too.

“Good,” he replied, his own voice sounding almost fierce. He hugged Sherlock tightly, hoping that it conveyed at least a little of his depth of feeling, of how much Sherlock’s trust meant to him, and was pleased and touched when Sherlock snuggled into the embrace, holding onto him just as tightly in return.

This time the comfortable silence lasted for nearly a minute, until Sherlock broke it once again. “It was still awful,” he muttered, returning to his original topic quite as if the rest of the conversation hadn’t happened.

And just as abruptly, now he was back to sounding sulky again. John would swear he could get dizzy trying to keep up with Sherlock’s moods some days. Still, he much preferred Sherlock sounding sulky to Sherlock with that painful note of hurt in his voice. John could only hope that Sherlock had believed his words of reassurance—or at least that he’d made a start on believing them. He was certainly quite happy to say them again and again until Sherlock _really_ believed him.

For now, though, he answered in kind, giving Sherlock’s back another consoling pat. “I know it was,” he said, then added in a mild tone, “Although if you really don’t like it, you don’t have to misbehave.”

John couldn’t see Sherlock’s scowl, but he could _feel_ it. “I do so,” Sherlock said sullenly. “You count _working_ as misbehaving.”

“I count needlessly risking your life as misbehaving,” John corrected him firmly. “I told you I’m going to keep you safe, and I plan to do just that. And you know perfectly well I’m not trying to stop you from working. Did I cane you yesterday for finding out who the murderer was? Or did I cane you because you risked your safety and your life for no good reason?”

Sherlock squirmed a little at the firmer tone, but after a reluctant and rather sulky pause, he sighed in defeat and replied dutifully, “The second one.”

“Quite right,” John said. “And the reason you got punished today had nothing to do with work, it had to do with you throwing a tantrum that a six-year-old would envy. That wasn’t something you had to do, it was something you chose to do, and it only got you the spanking you deserved.”

Sherlock sighed, sounding greatly aggrieved. “I was bored,” he said, half-petulant, half-pleading. “Lines are so boring, John.”

“They’re supposed to be boring,” John said. “That’s why they’re a punishment. And you will be doing them, no matter how boring they are. All you achieved by throwing a tantrum was putting them off for a while, and making it even more uncomfortable to sit down to write them.”

Sherlock’s head abruptly came up at that, and this time he tilted his chin up so that he could meet John’s eyes. Unsurprisingly, he was flushed and tearstained and thoroughly dishevelled, and the look of startled dismay on his face only made him appear even more woebegone.

“You’re not still going to make me do them today, are you?” he asked in apparent disbelief, as if the notion that John would still insist on making him write the assigned lines hadn’t even occurred to him. Then before John could even answer, he burst out pleadingly, “John, I can’t! It hurts too much. I _can’t_ sit down.”

“You can and you will,” John said, refusing to be swayed. “I’ll put some arnica on your bottom, and that will help take some of the sting out. But you will be sitting down to write your lines. How long it takes is entirely up to you.”

“But it really hurts!” Sherlock protested again, looking utterly woeful. “It was hard enough to sit down before, and now it’s worse.”

“Then it’ll be a good lesson, won’t it?” John replied. “Maybe you’ll remember next time not to throw a tantrum. No more arguments, Sherlock,” he added in a sterner tone, as Sherlock opened his mouth to protest yet again. “You don’t get to decide your punishments, I do. You will be writing lines, and you will be sitting down to do it. And unless you want another smack or two for arguing, you’ll settle down right now and let me give you another cuddle.”

Sherlock’s eyes went even wider at the threat of more spanking, and he hastily shook his head, his hand once again going instinctively behind him to shield his bottom. “No!” he exclaimed. “No more, please.”

“Good,” John said, his tone softening again. “Come on, then, back you come.”

He tugged lightly on Sherlock’s shoulder in invitation, and after a moment Sherlock lowered his head back down onto John’s shoulder, cuddling into him again. John rubbed his back soothingly, then patted at Sherlock’s hand, which was still hovering protectively over his bottom. “Come on, let’s have that hand back,” he said fondly. “No more spanking if you behave, just a cuddle.”

Sherlock gave a soft sigh, but he obediently returned his hand to its previous position, wrapped tightly around John’s waist. And despite all his protesting, when John cuddled him close Sherlock willingly snuggled into him again, making a considerably happier noise as John went back to stroking his hair.

“That’s it,” John said. “Just relax. It’s still cuddle time now, and I want you to sleep for a bit if you can. You’ve had a hard morning.”

Sherlock shifted slightly against him, nuzzling his face into John’s shoulder. “I’m not a baby,” he murmured, the muffled protest already sounding sleepy. “And I’m not tired.”

John smiled to himself. “Well, you don’t have to sleep if you really can’t,” he said, trying not to sound too fondly indulgent. “Just rest for a while then. I’ll be right here.”

There was another little shift and nuzzle as Sherlock made himself more comfortable, and then a contented hum against his shoulder. “Okay,” Sherlock agreed, sounding even sleepier.

John’s smile became a grin, and he leaned down to kiss the top of Sherlock’s head. Then he lay back, closed his own eyes, and concentrated on just carding his fingers through Sherlock’s mop of curls, and listening to the soft, even sounds of his breathing. They still had the lines to tackle, and Sherlock’s punishment wouldn’t be officially over until those were done, but for now John was just going to enjoy some more cuddle time.

 


	6. Lines (Again) and Cuddle Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After taking slightly less than an eternity to post this, the final part at last! Apologies to anyone who was waiting, I’ll try not to be so slow again. And there’s no spanking at all in this one, but there is plenty of cuddling.

 

Sure enough, Sherlock had gone out like a light about five minutes after claiming that he wasn’t tired, and this time his nap had lasted for the better part of an hour. John wasn’t really surprised—after all, as he’d said, Sherlock had had a hard morning. And it wasn’t like it had been a hardship to cuddle up with him for an hour, especially since Sherlock did become endearingly cuddly in his sleep.

Still, by the time Sherlock woke up, John was a bit grateful for it, since his stomach had started to inform him in no uncertain terms that it was getting well past lunchtime. And furthermore, if it wasn’t too much trouble, it would have no objections at all to him feeding it, and sooner would be better.

He felt Sherlock stir against his side, and then the curly head slowly rolled itself out of its comfortable spot on John’s shoulder. “You’re hungry,” Sherlock murmured, his eyes still closed.

“Excellent deduction,” John said with a grin, as his stomach gave another impatient grumble. “Although in my defence, it was lunchtime a while ago.”

“Hmmm,” Sherlock said noncommittally, and rubbed his cheek sleepily against John’s shoulder. “Does that mean it’s time to get up, then?”

“Only if you’re ready to,” John assured him. “We can’t laze around all day, but there’s always time for another cuddle if you want one.”

There was a pause, as if Sherlock was considering this, and then he sighed. “I could get up,” he said, finally opening his eyes. He sighed again, and added morosely, “I want to get it over with.”

John didn’t need to ask what ‘it’ was. He’d already told Sherlock that he’d still be writing lines today, and it was so late now that it would probably take Sherlock the rest of the afternoon to finish them. Making a start soon would be no bad thing, although John did intend to make sure that Sherlock had something to eat first.

“Okay,” he agreed, giving Sherlock a comforting pat on the back. “Come on, then. We’ll get up and I’ll make us some lunch, and then you can get to it.”

Sherlock gave a dutiful nod and began wriggling himself out of bed, while John climbed out on the other side. It took Sherlock a few moments to locate his tracksuit bottoms, which had been mostly kicked off during his spanking and, apparently, shoved off the rest of the way during cuddle time. Finding them half under the bed, he shook them out and began gingerly manoeuvring himself back into them, grimacing in obvious discomfort as he eased them up over his bottom.

“I’ll put some arnica on you before you get started on your lines,” John assured him, as Sherlock padded mournfully over to join him. “That’ll help to take some of the sting out.”

Sherlock’s woeful look told him that taking ‘some’ of the sting out would not be nearly enough for his liking, and John couldn’t resist giving him a quick hug, patting his back in sympathy. “There, there,” he soothed. “I know it hurts, but the arnica cream will help, and you can still have a cushion when you have to sit down.”

Sherlock came willingly into the embrace, seeming happy to take comfort where he could get it, and bowed his head trustingly down onto John’s shoulder. Touched, John held him for a few moments more, gently rubbing the space between his shoulder blades. “There, there,” he murmured again, and gave Sherlock a last fond squeeze before letting him go.

“Your punishment’s almost over,” he said, as Sherlock reluctantly straightened up again. “You’ll do your lines, and then that’s the end of it, and we can put it behind us. Lesson learned. Right?”

Sherlock gave a dutiful nod in reply, although John suspected they both knew there was no way it would actually be that easy. Sherlock’s penchant for taking dangerous risks was far too strongly ingrained, and it was going to take a lot more than one punishment, no matter how severe it was, to even begin to break him of the habit.

But that was okay. John knew what he’d signed up for here, and he was quite prepared to keep trying for as long as it took. He would do his very best to keep Sherlock safe, even if he had to spank him every day to do it.

Although let it be noted, he thought wryly, that he really did hope it didn’t actually come to that.

He was turning towards the door when he spotted the wooden spoon lying on the floor beside the bed, and since they were about to head for the kitchen he bent to retrieve it, intending to put it back where he’d found it. As soon as he had it in hand, though, he reconsidered. Since this particular wooden spoon had now exchanged its role as a kitchen utensil for one as a spanking implement instead, it would probably be more sensible for it to live in Sherlock’s bedroom with the hairbrush.

He crossed quickly to Sherlock’s chest of drawers and put the spoon down on top, deciding to leave it up to Sherlock to choose a drawer for it. When he turned around, he found Sherlock watching him with an expression that was somewhere between resigned and pouty.

“I’ll consider myself advised, then,” he said dryly, as John came back over to join him. It took John a moment to understand what he meant, but then he remembered Sherlock’s choice of words during their discussion about the rules. Implements to be advised, Sherlock had said, and John had replied in bemusement that he was making it sound like a contract.

_And it is_ , John thought fondly. _It’s our contract_.

“Yes, you can consider yourself advised,” he said, adding, “It’ll be a good alternative to the hairbrush.”

Sherlock huffed, giving him a reproachful look. “I object to your use of the word ‘good’,” he said, the pout now firmly back in place.

John raised an eyebrow at him. “Coming from a man who talks about murders being brilliant, I don’t think you’ve got any room to talk.”

That got him another huff. “Murders _are_ brilliant if they keep me from being bored,” Sherlock told him in a lofty tone.

John grinned. “Since I know what you’re like when you’re bored, I’ll give you that,” he said wryly. “Now, come on, you. Let’s have some lunch so that you can get the rest of the boredom over with. The sooner you start, the sooner you’ll finish.”

Sherlock gave a mournful sigh at the reminder, but he followed without protest, trailing obediently behind as John led the way down to the kitchen. John was still getting used to the feel of that—both the obedience and the trailing. As a general rule, it had almost always been him trailing after Sherlock, especially when it was anything to do with a case. But since John had taken on the disciplinarian role, and especially after a spanking had been meted out, Sherlock had developed a tendency to follow him around like a woeful looking puppy.

John hadn’t commented on it, of course—he wasn’t entirely sure if Sherlock even realised he was doing it, and he didn’t want to embarrass him. It still felt a bit odd, even when John had his Captain Authority Figure face on, but he supposed it would feel less so as he got used to it. Their arrangement had only been in place for a few weeks, after all. And odd or not, there was something very endearing about it, especially since John couldn’t imagine Sherlock doing it with anyone else.

After a quick hunt in the cupboards and the fridge—there was actually some food in the house, thank goodness—John set about making them sandwiches, mostly because they were quick. The sooner Sherlock got started on his lines the sooner he’d be finished, and John didn’t want to risk dragging things out any longer than absolutely necessary. Sherlock had probably learned his lesson about tantrums at least for today, but if he got bored and fractious enough, there was no telling what might happen.

Even during the scant ten minutes it took John to make them some sandwiches, Sherlock alternated between pacing restlessly around the room and propping himself forlornly against the table to watch. He looked so miserable that John would have liked to give him another hug, but he’d decided that they really did need to just get on with things now. Sherlock was still on punishment until his lines were done, and John had to be the disciplinarian until it was over with. He’d make sure Sherlock was fed, he’d do the necessary doctoring with arnica cream, and he’d watch over him while he wrote his lines. There would be plenty of time for more cuddling after that, and John would be more than glad to provide it—just as soon as Sherlock’s punishment was officially over.

Sandwiches made, he put Sherlock’s onto a plate and handed it off to him. “Don’t even think about telling me you’re not hungry,” he warned firmly, hoping to forestall any arguments before they could start. He really didn’t want to have to smack Sherlock again, although he was quite prepared to do it if Sherlock forced the issue.

But much to John’s relief, it seemed that Sherlock was inclined to cooperate. He heaved a put upon sigh, but he accepted the plate without protest, and after only a few moments of unenthusiastically eyeing its contents he dutifully began to eat.

He made no attempt to sit down to do it, rather just propping himself against the table again while he nibbled. For the sake of convenience John did the same, only he took the worktop to lean on. They ate in silence, John with the speedy efficiency that came with hunger and a lot of years in the military, and Sherlock with a look of woeful resignation that made John want to hug him even more.

He firmly clamped down on the urge, however, reminding himself once again that he was being the disciplinarian right now. He’d given Sherlock plenty of cuddle time after his spanking, and now they needed to get on with the rest of it. He’d be able to provide Sherlock with a bit of comfort with the arnica cream, and that would just have to do until his punishment was properly over.

With that goal firmly in mind, as soon as they’d both finished eating John stacked the plates beside the sink and shooed Sherlock back to his bedroom. This time, Sherlock seemed quite pleased to go, no doubt anticipating a bit of relief for his sore bottom. Endearingly, though, he waited for John to precede him down the hall, following obediently along behind him once more. John deliberately didn’t comment on it, but it made him smile a little to himself even so.

Once they were back in Sherlock’s room, John pointed Sherlock towards the bed, while he went to retrieve the arnica cream from the bedside table. “Right then, trousers off and lie down,” he said, automatically falling into the brisk but kindly tone that was his usual bedside manner.

He turned back, arnica cream in hand, only to find Sherlock hovering anxiously beside the bed, his cheeks flushed in obvious embarrassment. It wasn’t as if John hadn’t done this for him before, but he’d noticed that Sherlock could become shy about it rather abruptly, and for reasons John sometimes couldn’t work out.

He wondered if it might be the ‘baby spanking’ factor that was discomforting Sherlock this time. Sherlock had been very distressed about being reduced to tears by what he’d seen as a mild punishment, so perhaps the idea of getting his sore parts soothed afterwards was recalling some of that embarrassment.

John couldn’t be entirely sure, since Sherlock’s motivations could sometimes be very hard to work out if he didn’t actually explain them. But just on the off chance that that was the problem, he spoke more gently, choosing his words with greater care.

“Sherlock, come on,” he said encouragingly. “It’ll help. I know you must still be sore after that caning yesterday, and it’ll make it easier to sit down.”

John hoped that the reminder of the caning—rather than the baby spanking—might help to ease any embarrassment Sherlock was feeling. It had been a severe punishment, after all, and John would have been doctoring the resulting stripes either way. The fact that Sherlock had been spanked as well didn’t really come into it, except to make it even more reasonable that he’d need some soothing treatment.

Sherlock’s blush remained, but his expression seemed to ease slightly, and the anxious line of his mouth softened. His lips quirked up into a very faint smile as he looked at John, as if he knew exactly what John had been trying to do—which he probably did, John thought wryly. He knew very well that Sherlock could read his motivations far more easily than he could read Sherlock’s.

“Come on,” he said again, lightly, and returned the smile. “Drop them and on the bed with you. The doctor is in.”

That got another little smile from Sherlock, and this time some of the tension seemed to ease out of his shoulders. The high colour stayed in his cheeks, betraying his lingering embarrassment, but he turned obediently towards the bed, and began gingerly lowering his tracksuit bottoms. Once he had them down around his knees he kept hold of them with one hand, braced himself on the bed with the other, and carefully climbed up and stretched himself out.

The grab for a pillow to hug seemed to be almost instinctive now, John thought, as Sherlock took one from the head of the bed and promptly wrapped his arms around it. John made sure he didn’t actually smile, but he was definitely smiling on the inside. Sherlock’s pillow hugging was another thing he couldn’t have imagined Sherlock doing before their arrangement had started, but now that he was doing it, it was enormously endearing.

He sat down on the edge of the bed, turning his attention to the area requiring treatment and taking in the damage with a practiced eye. Even though he knew Sherlock had earned every bit of the punishment he’d received, John still couldn’t help but wince a little in sympathy as he took in the state of Sherlock’s bottom. The rosy flush from the spanking with the wooden spoon had already faded to leave just a hint of pink—he really had gone very lightly—but those stripes from the cane still looked awfully sore. No wonder poor Sherlock had been so unhappy about sitting down.

Well, he couldn’t make it all better, but he could certainly provide some relief, and some comforting attention to go with it. John popped the top off the arnica cream and scooped some out on a finger, then shifted so that he was in a more comfortable position for applying it, ending up sitting cross-legged next to Sherlock.

“Okay, here we go,” he said, putting his free hand on the small of Sherlock’s back. “I’ll be as gentle as I can be.”

He felt Sherlock tense under his hand, and patted him in reassurance. Very gently, he began to apply the cream to the lowest of the stripes, rubbing along it in little circles while keeping his touch as light as possible. Sherlock tensed even more, his breath catching, but he remained obediently still apart from hugging his pillow a bit tighter. John rubbed the small of his back soothingly, mimicking the little circles that his other hand was making.

“It’s okay,” he said. “Just try to relax. I’ll be gentle, I promise.”

Sherlock’s response was to make an unhappy little noise and bury his face firmly in the pillow he was hugging. John determinedly didn’t smile—although the whole pillow hugging thing was really just too adorable—but just kept up his ministrations.

As he had promised, he took care to go as lightly and carefully as he could, and it wasn’t long before Sherlock began to relax under his touch, the tension slowly bleeding out of him. By the time John was on the third stripe, Sherlock had turned his face out of the pillow again and was lying with his eyes closed, his breathing soft and even. He looked quite content, all things considered, and this time John did let himself smile as he took in Sherlock’s peaceful expression. Much like the pillow hugging, seeing Sherlock Holmes go all dreamy under his touch rated pretty high on John’s endearing scale.

He was generous with the cream, taking care to doctor each stripe thoroughly, and by the time he’d finished going over them all he’d made quite a dent in the amount of cream left in the tub. Making a mental note to buy some more, he scooped out another fingerful and began smoothing it over the whole area of Sherlock’s bottom this time. There was little visible trace of the smacks he’d given Sherlock over his stripes, but even so there would probably be lingering soreness, and John didn’t want to neglect it.

Sherlock gave a contented little sigh as John began his more generalised rubbing, arching his back slightly to press his bottom up into the soothing touch. He looked half-asleep, so John wasn’t sure if he even realised he was doing it. Whether he did or not, though, it too made John’s growing list of endearing Sherlock behaviour. Before their arrangement had started, he’d have never dreamed that Sherlock could be so cute.

Not that he minded, of course. Not only was it cute, but John was also well aware that it was him and him alone who got to see this side of Sherlock, that he was the only one who was allowed close enough to see it. Endearing moments aside, John didn’t take that lightly. Sherlock trusted him enough to let his guard down around him, and that was a gift John was determined to be worthy of.

And for right now, he was honouring that trust by doing the necessary doctoring. He made sure to generously apply the cream to all the affected areas, gently rubbing it into Sherlock’s bottom and then once he’d finished that, continuing all the way down the backs of his thighs. Sherlock barely moved during these ministrations, except to occasionally sigh and shift up just a little into John’s touch. By the time John was finished, Sherlock had been so peacefully still for so long that John was half-convinced he had actually fallen asleep, or was at least close to it.

He looked so peaceful that John was actually very tempted to just leave him to nap for a while—God knew Sherlock never got enough sleep as it was. However, there was still the issue of his punishment, and at this point John didn’t want to drag things out any longer than necessary. He’d rather intended for Sherlock to already be finished with his lines by now, but Sherlock had managed to misbehave so spectacularly while he was being punished that there had been delay after delay.

No, John thought—better to get Sherlock up and let him get on with it. Sherlock needed this punishment to be over, and the sooner he got started with his lines, the sooner he’d be finished with them.

“Hey,” he said, patting Sherlock’s back in gentle enquiry. “Are you awake?”

“Mmmm,” came the drowsy sounding reply, and John smiled and patted a little more firmly.

“Come on, you,” he said fondly. “Time to get up. Those lines aren’t going to write themselves.”

At the mention of the lines, Sherlock gave a soft groan and dragged the pillow over his head with one hand. He mumbled something that John couldn’t quite make out, but it sounded entirely without enthusiasm. John manfully bit back a grin, trying to project his best disciplinarian demeanour instead.

“Come on,” he said, letting his voice become just a little bit stern. “Up you get. You’re still on punishment until those lines are done. And I’ve just spent more than twenty minutes doctoring you, so I really don’t want to have to smack you again.” He patted the small of Sherlock’s back, as a gentle reminder that he was still mostly bare below the waist and thus very easily smacked if John needed to do it.

Sherlock apparently took the point, since the hand which wasn’t holding the pillow over his head promptly shot backwards to position itself defensively palm up over his bottom. “No, John,” he whined, clutching the pillow tightly around his head with his other hand, and managing to somehow look about six years old in the process.

By some miracle, John managed not to laugh. Even more miraculously, he managed to hold onto his stern tone.

“None of that,” he said. “If you do as you’re told, I won’t need to smack you, will I? Now come on. I’m going to go and get things ready for you in the living room. You’ve got five minutes to get yourself up and dressed and come and meet me there. You’ll do your lines, and then your punishment will be over.” He gave Sherlock’s back another encouraging pat and slid off the bed. “Five minutes, Sherlock,” he repeated firmly, and headed with equally firm steps in the direction of the living room.

John spent several of those five minutes cleaning up the remains of Sherlock’s tantrum, which was still littering the living room. He gathered up the scattered torn pages of Sherlock’s lines, all of which went in the bin, then retrieved the pad of refill and the pens from where Sherlock had hurled them. He righted the kicked over chair and put it back in its place at the table, and set the cushion back on the seat. Finally, he picked up a pen and proceeded to write out for a second time the sentences he expected Sherlock to copy, only this time he added a fourth one to the list.

_I will not chase violent criminals without police backup_.

_When John says stop I will stop_.

_I will never jump onto the roof of a moving bus again_.

_Tantrums are not acceptable behaviour_.

Finished, John eyed the page for a moment and nodded to himself in satisfaction. Sherlock would not be happy at having an extra sentence added to his tally of lines, but the point needed to be made about tantrums. Another hundred lines wouldn’t kill him, especially when the sentence only had five words.

He had just set the page down on the table when Sherlock appeared, padding gingerly through the kitchen and hovering just inside the doorway. He looked sleepy and dishevelled, and his woeful expression made John want to march straight across the room and hug him right there. It took quite an effort of willpower to stay where he was and tap firmly on the table top to summon Sherlock to him.

“Come on,” he said. “I’ve got things ready for you. The sooner you start, the sooner you’ll be finished.”

Sherlock heaved a mournful sounding sigh, but obediently crossed the room to join John at the table. “I don’t suppose the ones I already did will count?” he asked without hope, then stopped dead as he caught sight of the piece of paper with his assigned lines written on it. His eyes widened in dismay and he cast John a wounded look of betrayal. “There are four now.” His indignant tone quickly became a whine. “John, that’s not fair.”

“It’s perfectly fair,” John said evenly. “You’ve been given an extra line as punishment for throwing a temper tantrum. Let that be a lesson to you.”

“But you already punished me for—for—that!” Sherlock protested, actually stumbling over the words as he barely caught himself before the phrase ‘temper tantrum’ could come out of his mouth.

“The spanking you got was part of your punishment, and this is another part,” John said, his voice becoming stern. “Now I don’t want to hear any more arguing. Your punishment is not over until these lines are done, and the more fuss you make about it, the longer it drags on. I don’t want that any more than you do, but you will be doing these lines. How long it takes is up to you.”

Sherlock’s brows drew together in a frown that was somewhere between miserable and mutinous, and he opened his mouth in what John just knew was going to be yet another attempt to argue. Determined to head things off before they could escalate any further, this time he cut Sherlock off before he could even get a word out, his tone very stern now as he fixed Sherlock with his best Captain Watson stare.

“Let me be very clear about this, Sherlock,” he said. “If you keep arguing with me, I will smack you again. If you decide to throw another tantrum, you will get another spanking, and you will still be doing your lines at the end of it, no matter how much it hurts to sit down. These lines are part of your punishment and your punishment is not over until they are done. Now are you going to sit down and do them, or am I going to smack you again for disobedience? Your choice.”

Sherlock had blanched at the threat of yet another spanking, and as John watched, his hands crept behind him in an instinctive attempt to shield his sore bottom from any further discipline. The defiance left his face as quickly as it had arrived, and he hastily shook his head and took an anxious step backwards. “No! Please, John, don’t. I’ll be—”

He stopped in midsentence, catching himself before he could finish voicing what John strongly suspected would have been ‘I’ll be good’. Instead Sherlock hesitated for a moment, bit his lip, and then went on meekly, “I’ll do my lines.”

“Good,” John said, his tone still firm, but with a note of approval in it now. “Come on, then. Hop to it.” He tapped the table top with his finger once again. “I know sitting down won’t be pleasant, but the cushion will take the edge off it. And once you’ve got started I’ll make you some tea.”

Sherlock looked miserably down at the chair, and then his eyes went back to John’s face, as if he couldn’t help making one last silent plea for mercy. John was not at all immune to those mournful grey eyes, but he made sure his expression didn’t change, remaining stern and expectant in response. He tapped the table top yet again, and said quietly but warningly, “Sherlock …”

Sherlock sighed, a soft admission of defeat, and dropped his eyes. Looking thoroughly dejected, he pulled the chair out from the table a little more and spent a few procrastinating moments adjusting the cushion to his satisfaction, which John allowed without comment. Finally, as if knowing that he couldn’t put it off any longer without being openly defiant, Sherlock took a deep breath and very slowly and gingerly eased himself down onto the chair. As his weight settled onto his bottom, his face screwed up in pain and he made a sad little noise that went straight to John’s heart.

He forced himself to remain mostly stern, but just like the first time they had done this, he couldn’t help giving Sherlock a quick hug around the shoulders, wanting to offer some comfort. And just like before, Sherlock leaned into it gratefully, this time even dropping his curly head onto John’s shoulder in an obvious desire for reassurance.

John kissed the top of his head, giving him another comforting squeeze before finally pulling back. “Well done,” he said. “You’re being very brave. Now you get started writing, and I’ll go and make you some tea. One hundred times for each sentence—and to answer your earlier question, no, I’m afraid the ones you did before and ripped up don’t count. Same rules as before; you can get up if you need the loo, but other than that, you stay in your seat. All right?”

Sherlock nodded, looking miserable but resigned. “Yes, John.”

“Good,” John said. He gave Sherlock an encouraging pat on the shoulder, and then headed for the kitchen to make the promised tea.

He had to wash out a couple of cups while the kettle was boiling, since there were none in the cupboard and while the ones sitting by the sink looked clean, John didn’t trust them. Anything that wasn’t in the cupboard was fair game for Sherlock’s experiments, so John tended to wash anything they were eating off no matter how clean it looked, just to be on the safe side.

He made two cups of tea, then took them back out into the living room, depositing his own cup beside his armchair before going to set Sherlock’s on the table next to him. To his relief, Sherlock had followed through on his verbal acquiescence and had obediently begun to write, once again starting with the first sentence on John’s list. John noted with an internal wince of sympathy that his handwriting looked a bit shakier than usual, probably because poor Sherlock seemed to be quite unable to sit still. Even with the cushion for padding, putting weight on his sore bottom had to be very uncomfortable.

Seeing Sherlock’s forlorn expression—and the fact that Sherlock was obeying him despite the obvious discomfort—brought John’s sympathy and instincts for caretaking fully to the fore, and he had a long moment of feeling unpleasantly like a complete bastard before he managed to silently scold himself back into sense. He told himself, very firmly indeed, that sympathy and compassion were fine, but he couldn’t let them spill over into guilt. He wouldn’t be able to discipline Sherlock effectively if he felt guilty about doing it. Not to mention, there was no reason for him to feel guilty over giving Sherlock something he needed so badly. And they both knew Sherlock needed this, even if he didn’t like it when it was happening.

A firm reminder to himself of exactly what Sherlock had done to earn this punishment in the first place helped rather a lot. After all, if it came down to Sherlock having a sore bottom from punishment or Sherlock being injured or killed because no one was able to rein him in enough to keep him from taking lunatic risks, there was no question as to which one John would choose. He’d spank Sherlock every day if he had to, _twice_ a day if he had to, if doing so would keep him safe.

And then there was the fact, again, that Sherlock _was_ obeying him. Despite the discomfort, despite the fact that he obviously didn’t want to, Sherlock was nevertheless doing what John had told him to do.

Oddly enough, while this had momentarily made John feel terrible, it now helped to steady his thoughts. This, after all, was Sherlock Holmes they were talking about. If he truly didn’t want this—if he truly didn’t want John as an authority figure, didn’t want John to take control and discipline him—then it would never have got this far. Sherlock would not be sitting here right now, wriggling on a sore bottom and writing lines as though he was back in the school classroom, unless on some level he wanted to be here. Unless, on some level, he recognised that he needed to be here.

And that was it, really. Sherlock needed this, and they both knew it. Sherlock needed John to be the one in charge, the authority figure who set down rules and punished him when he broke them. And more than that, Sherlock also needed to be able to buck against it, to protest and pout and complain, and give John pleading looks and beg him not to punish him, all the while knowing that John wouldn’t give in to him. John wouldn’t give in to him, and so it was safe to make as much fuss as he wanted, because the end result would be the same.

A predictable response. Security. Safety. That was what Sherlock needed, and that was exactly what John intended to give him.

With that rather enlightening cascade of thought, the surge of guilt was gone as quickly as it had arrived, leaving John with the much steadier, calmer feelings of compassion mixed with firm resolve. And along with them came the realisation that Sherlock had stopped writing and had turned his head to look at John, watching him with an expression that looked caught halfway between his now familiar look of punished woe and a kind of uncertain wariness.

John couldn’t help but smile a little, even as the uncertainty in Sherlock’s eyes tugged at his heartstrings. Typical Sherlock, who saw through everything. He’d probably picked up on John’s moment of guilt from the sound of his breathing, or the way he’d held his shoulders, or something equally impossible seeming.

Well, Sherlock saw everything, so let him see this. John wasn’t going anywhere, and he was going to give Sherlock what he needed, whether Sherlock liked it or not. And Sherlock could indeed buck against it all he liked, because the end result _would_ be the same.

As a demonstration of that, John let his slight smile fade back into a look of stern expectation, and nodded pointedly down at the pad of paper in front of Sherlock. “Those lines aren’t going to write themselves.”

Sherlock blinked at him, then gave a resigned, unhappy sigh. “Yes, John,” he agreed dejectedly. But the wariness had left his eyes, and John nodded to himself in satisfaction.

“Go on, then,” he said. “I’ll be right here, so just tell me if you get hungry, or if you need something.”

Sherlock nodded, fully back to looking woeful now, and hunched himself miserably over his lines as he went back to writing. John patted him on the shoulder in reassurance, silently promising himself and Sherlock a proper hug once this was all over, and went back to his armchair and the paper.

The quiet that descended after that wasn’t entirely peaceful, as John found himself feeling a little on edge, and soon realised that he was half expecting Sherlock to hit his tolerance level again in short order and throw another fit. But the minutes ticked by and a quarter of an hour passed, and then a half, and then a full hour, and all the while Sherlock kept writing—squirming in his seat and looking dramatically forlorn the entire time, but still dutifully writing.

And as the minutes kept ticking by, and the half expected tantrum still didn’t eventuate, little by little John found himself starting to properly relax. He even began, somewhat tentatively, to hope that they might actually get through this without him having to wallop Sherlock yet again.

They had almost reached the hour and a half mark, and John had moved on from the paper to the medical journal that he’d been meaning to read for the last week, when Sherlock interrupted him again. Thankfully this time the interruption did not take the form of a tantrum, but was instead a quiet, almost tentative, “John?”

John looked up and offered an encouraging little smile. “What is it? Do you need something?”

Sherlock cast John a sideways look and shifted uncomfortably where he sat. Even from his armchair position, John could see the faint flush of colour blooming across Sherlock’s cheeks.

“I …” Sherlock began, and then trailed off. He bit his lip for a moment in what was really a rather adorable fashion, and then tried again, his blush deepening even as John watched. “I’ve finished the first two hundred. I was wondering if I could get up for a while? Just for a break? It’s just … it’s really sore, and …”

He shifted in his seat again, grimacing in obvious discomfort, and turned a pleading look on John in lieu of saying any more.

John knew he could have ignored that pleading look if he’d felt that he had to. He’d ignored Sherlock’s pleading looks plenty of times before, after all. He could have mildly but firmly denied Sherlock’s request and told him to keep writing, and he knew that Sherlock would have obeyed him, even if he’d looked dramatically woeful while he was doing it.

But Sherlock really had been well-behaved so far, despite having to sit on what John knew was a very sore bottom. He’d been keeping half an eye on Sherlock as he was reading, and he could hardly have missed the way Sherlock had been squirming in his seat, constantly shifting his weight to try to find a less uncomfortable position to perch in. Not surprising at all given the state Sherlock’s bottom was in, but even so he’d waited until he was fully halfway through his punishment before asking for a break. With all that in mind, John thought that Sherlock had earned one.

“Yes, you can get up for a bit,” he said, smiling when Sherlock instantly shot up out of his chair in relief. “Not too long, though, or it’s only going to be worse when you have to sit down again. Ten minutes, all right? And I’ll make you another cup of tea.”

Sherlock was occupied in rubbing gingerly but with obvious relief at the seat of his tracksuit bottoms, but at the mention of tea he nodded and gave John a grateful look. “Yes, please.”

John got out of his chair and headed for the kitchen, pausing at the door to ask with little hope, “I don’t suppose you’re hungry?”

Rather to his surprise, Sherlock hesitated for a moment and then looked vaguely hopeful himself. “Are there any biscuits?”

There were; John had seen them earlier when he was searching the cupboards. “Do you want hobnobs or chocolate digestives?”

“Both,” Sherlock replied, and John rolled his eyes.

“Fine, but you’re having something with vegetables in it for dinner,” he said wryly. Sherlock huffed, but didn’t protest, and as he met John’s eyes he gave him an almost shy little smile. John replied with a fond smile of his own, knowing that Sherlock liked his efforts to look after him, even if he couldn’t always bring himself to admit it.

He left Sherlock still carefully trying to soothe his sore bottom, and turned his attention to making tea and piling a stack of biscuits on a plate. He supposed he ought to just be thankful that Sherlock was willing to eat something. John could work on getting a healthier meal into him later, but for now, biscuits would do.

By the time he returned to the living room, Sherlock had given up rubbing his bottom in favour of pacing rather gingerly back and forth, as if trying to walk off the discomfort. He made an immediate beeline for the plate of biscuits John set down on the table, and scooped up a handful to nibble on while he continued to pace. John likewise took a handful for himself and retreated to his armchair with his cup of tea, watching with what he hoped was a stern sort of sympathy as Sherlock padded carefully to and fro across the living room, a hand stealing back every now and then to rub at the obviously lingering soreness.

John gave him enough time to work his way through his handful of biscuits—which didn’t take long—and then spoke up, quietly but firmly. “All right, that’s enough of a break. If you’re up for too long it’ll only be worse when you sit down again. Back to it.”

Sherlock stopped his pacing and cast John a pleading look, his hands going automatically behind him again. “Five more minutes,” he insisted. It would have sounded like a typically Sherlockish demand if not for the almost whiny tone it was spoken in.

It took more effort than it really ought to have for John to keep the smile he was feeling from appearing on his face. He knew he needed to be stern, but Sherlock’s plea for ‘five more minutes’ was so childishly cute that John really, really wanted to smile. He managed to squash it, though, and to keep his tone quiet and even, although making it a bit firmer.

“No,” he said. “You’ve had your break, and now it’s time to get your punishment finished. Come on, Sherlock. Back to it.”

Sherlock looked greatly torn for a moment, his eyes narrowing in frustration, and John had the sudden anxious suspicion that they were hovering right on the edge of another tantrum. It seemed ridiculous that Sherlock would even consider such a thing, given what his last tantrum had earned him, but then this was Sherlock they were talking about. As much as he needed it, having someone else take charge was still a very new thing for him, and John had already learned that Sherlock could become frustrated by it with startling suddenness.

John had also learned that the best solution to this seemed to be to try to nip it in the bud as quickly as possible. He hastily spoke again before Sherlock could tip any further towards the tantrum direction, his voice stern but carrying a note of encouragement that he hoped Sherlock would listen to.

“No arguments, Sherlock. I mean it. You’ve done really well so far, and you’re already halfway through. This is the last part of your punishment, and once you’ve finished this last bit it’s all over. I’d really like it to be over so that I can give you a cuddle and we can have a nice evening together. And I really don’t want to have to spank you again for throwing another tantrum. But you know I will if that’s what you need me to do. So what’s it to be?”

Sherlock’s expression shifted several times while John was speaking, and John couldn’t always read what was on his face. But he did recognise the flash of longing at the mention of a cuddle, and the alarm that followed the threat of yet another spanking. Sherlock shook his head in what looked like instinctive denial at John’s suggestion that Sherlock might need that spanking, and his hands, which had fallen to his sides, went protectively behind him again to shield his sore bottom.

“No!” he insisted as soon as John stopped talking. “No more spanking, John, please.”

“Well then, you know what you need to do,” John said, crossing his arms firmly over his chest. “You need to sit down and finish your lines. You’ve got tea and biscuits there to tide you over, so put your bottom on that chair and get to it.”

Sherlock turned an unhappy gaze towards the chair, and then an even more forlorn one back on John. He heaved a dramatic, put upon sigh, letting his shoulders slump in miserable defeat. And then he abruptly straightened up again and appeared to brighten a bit, looking as if inspiration had suddenly struck. “I need the loo first,” he told John solemnly.

John tried valiantly not to chuckle, he really did, but he couldn’t quite keep his lips from quirking up just a bit at the very corners. He knew Sherlock would see it and that wasn’t good, because John needed to be the authority figure here, but Sherlock’s dramatics really could be so bloody cute when they didn’t go too far.

“Fine,” he said, struggling to put his stern expression back on. “You’ve got five minutes.” Which was exactly what Sherlock had wanted, and so John felt that he really ought to put his foot down at least a little, so that Sherlock didn’t feel quite so pleased with himself for managing to get his own way. He pointed a stern finger at Sherlock and warned, “Any longer than that, and it’s a smack for every extra minute.”

Sherlock pouted and gave a huff of displeasure, but nodded. “Fine,” he agreed, with only moderate sulkiness.

“Fine,” John echoed, half stern and half amused by the sheer drama of it all. “Off you go, then.”

Sherlock turned and didn’t quite flounce off down the hall, and John snorted to himself. Well, to be fair, he had told Sherlock that he could get up for the loo whenever he needed to. Trust Sherlock to turn it all into a melodrama of manipulation, though. Honestly, John was half tempted to give him a smack just on principle.

And speaking of which … he glanced pointedly at the clock, noting the time so that he could keep track of whether Sherlock stayed within his allowed five minutes. John thought he probably would, but if Sherlock was in one of his testing moods, there was always the chance that he’d push it just to see what John would do.

As it turned out, though, he didn’t. Perhaps he simply wasn’t in a testing mood right now, or perhaps he’d decided that his bottom was just too sore already to invite any more punishment. Whatever the reason, Sherlock padded back into the living room with a good thirty seconds to spare, cast John a virtuous look for having done as he was told, and crossed back to his waiting seat at the table. His expression quickly turned forlorn again as he regarded the chair, and he sighed heavily, flicking a now sad-eyed glance in John’s direction.

“Come on,” John said, trying for a tone that was halfway between firm and coaxing. “You’re halfway there already. Just finish up the rest, and it’ll be all over.”

Sherlock gave another sigh and looked impressively woeful, but made no protest. He shifted the chair out a bit more and fussed with the cushion on the seat for a few moments, adjusting it carefully until he was satisfied with its position. Then he appeared to steel himself, and stepped deliberately into the space between the chair and the table. He took a deep breath and very gingerly lowered himself down, gripping the edges of the chair seat and almost hovering over it, as if he was trying to put off actually sitting down for as long as he possibly could. When his weight finally settled onto his bottom, he winced hard and sucked in his breath, letting out a low whine of pain.

The sound went straight to John’s heart, bringing on the all too familiar impulse to cuddle Sherlock within an inch of his life—which he knew was quite likely exactly what Sherlock intended. Intended or not, though, John didn’t doubt that Sherlock’s discomfort was genuine, and he had to work quite hard to remain firm in the face of Sherlock’s sad, crumpled expression.

“I know it’s sore,” he said. “But you’re being really brave, and you’re almost there. Finish up your lines, and then you can lie on your front for the rest of the day if you want to.”

Sherlock’s look of fresh woe told him that his suggestion wasn’t the comfort John had intended it to be. “I don’t _want_ to lie down for the rest of the day,” he protested. “I lay down all of _yesterday_.”

Sherlock’s confinement to bed had not, in fact, been anything like all of yesterday, yesterday having also included the murderer-chasing, bus-jumping incident that had resulted in Sherlock being punished in the first place. Still, John could understand Sherlock getting itchy feet after so much enforced boredom. He knew Sherlock well enough by now to know that hours of boredom, to him, felt more like weeks.

“Well then, you don’t have to,” he said soothingly. “You can go back to your experiments, or whatever you like. Or we could go out for a walk or something, if you want to get out of the flat for a while.”

John made the offer with little expectation of it being accepted, since without a case to draw his interest it could often be something of a mission to even coax Sherlock out the front door. Surprisingly, though, Sherlock seemed to brighten at the possibility.

“A walk would be nice,” he said, looking at John hopefully.

“A walk it is, then,” John agreed, somewhat bemused, but quite willing to follow through. “But only if you finish your lines.”

Sherlock gave a gusty sigh, but he did pick up his pen, eyeing it with unhappy resignation. He sighed again, even more dramatically, then turned to a fresh page of refill and dutifully began to write.

John breathed a silent sigh of relief. If Sherlock could just get through this last bit of his punishment without incident, they could put the whole thing behind them. John was looking forward to that just as much as Sherlock surely was.

Once John was reasonably sure that Sherlock was settled back into doing his lines, he likewise went back to reading his medical journal. He did make sure to keep half an eye on Sherlock even as he read, though, just in case. If Sherlock started to look like another tantrum might be brewing, John wanted the chance to head things off at the pass, so to speak. He was aware that it might not actually be possible to do that if any further tantrums came out of nowhere the way the first one had, but he was determined to at least try.

As it was, though, apart from constantly wriggling in his seat (which John could well understand, given the state of Sherlock’s bottom) and looking pitifully forlorn (which John suspected was mainly for his benefit, since Sherlock would know perfectly well that John was keeping half an eye on him), Sherlock appeared to be resigned to finishing off his punishment. His pen scrawled out line after line, inching its way down the page until he reached the bottom. He marked the occasion with another dramatic sigh, followed by an equally dramatic removal of the page from the pad, which was then added with deliberate care to the pile of completed ones.

John watched cautiously over the top of his journal as Sherlock shuffled the completed pile for a moment to straighten it, then shuffled the pad around too until he had it in a more satisfying position. He then took a few more moments to shuffle himself around, his face screwing up in obvious discomfort as he shifted his weight. But finally, with another heavy sigh, he settled as much as he seemed able to and began again at the top of the new page.

John breathed another silent sigh of relief and let his eyes stray back to the article he was reading.

He didn’t quite let himself relax, because honestly he wasn’t going to be able to properly relax until Sherlock’s punishment was officially over, but he did become steadily more optimistic as the minutes ticked by. Half an hour passed, and then three quarters, and then a full hour, and Sherlock kept diligently writing—and while he did plenty of wriggling around and sighing, there never seemed to be any signs that another explosion might be in the offing, even though John was keeping a very careful eye out for them. Because, after all, it was better to be safe than sorry, and he knew they’d both be very sorry indeed if Sherlock ended up pitching another fit and dragging this out even longer.

But much to John’s entirely heartfelt relief, Sherlock didn’t. As bored as he must have been, he nevertheless kept working, scratching out line after line with what looked like increasing determination as he drew closer and closer to the end. And at last—after nearly an hour and a half of earnest scribbling—he tore off the page he was working on, dropped it onto his completed pile, then instantly shot to his feet and announced with obvious relief, “Finished!”

_Thank Christ for that_ , John thought fervently, and realised with vague amusement that he was actually surprised. On some level he must still have been thinking that it couldn’t possibly be that easy, and that surely something else was going to happen that would result in Sherlock’s punishment being extended yet again. Hell, for a moment after Sherlock had made his announcement he’d hardly dared to even believe it.

But no, they’d got there in the end, they really had. Thank Christ for that.

John put his journal aside and got to his feet, relief and the sudden release of tension making his steps light as he crossed to where Sherlock was standing. Sherlock was once again rubbing gingerly at the seat of his tracksuit bottoms, but his obvious pleasure at his punishment finally being over seemed to be outweighing his discomfort, because he couldn’t even be bothered to wince.

John could definitely understand the feeling. “Well done,” he said earnestly, and gave Sherlock a warm, approving smile, which only widened when Sherlock straightened and appeared to almost preen under it. “I know that was very unpleasant, but you did really well. And that means your punishment is officially over, too,” he added, knowing Sherlock would be well aware of that, but wanting to confirm it out loud anyway. “All finished and forgiven.”

Sherlock seemed to brighten even more on hearing that, but there was something else there too, the obvious pleasure in his face mingling with something that looked to John like a sort of anxious hope. He hesitated for a moment, not quite looking John in the eye, then asked with what seemed to be deliberate casualness, “So you do, then?”

Puzzled—both by Sherlock’s expression and by the question—John asked carefully, “I do what?”

“Forgive me.”

John blinked. “Of course I do.”

“Even after all that,” Sherlock said, and although his tone was flat John knew it was a question.

“Of course I do,” he said again, with more emphasis this time. “Sherlock—look, come here.” He reached out for Sherlock, intent on pulling him into a hug, and was pleased when Sherlock allowed himself to be pulled, coming willingly into the offered embrace.

“That’s better,” John said, and squeezed him tightly, hugging him hard around his bony ribcage. Sherlock grunted at the pressure, but then his arms came tentatively around John in return, making it clear that he wasn’t actually protesting.

“Now you listen to me,” John said, once he’d made sure that Sherlock was being well and properly hugged. “Your punishment’s over, and that means it’s all finished and forgiven, just like it always is. It doesn’t matter what you did or how much of a fuss you made about being punished or anything else. It’s over now. I don’t want you to forget it, mind,” he added, suddenly thinking of Sherlock’s penchant for deleting anything he considered irrelevant. “But that’s all it is now, something to remember so that hopefully you think twice before you do anything like that again. Apart from that, it’s all over. And of course I forgive you, you daft thing.”

His tone on that last was fond to the point of being soppy, but neither that nor being called daft seemed to bother Sherlock, since he responded by ducking his head in an attempt to get it onto John’s shoulder. Touched, John tried to cuddle him closer in return, only to chuckle at what was becoming an increasingly awkward position. With the difference in their heights, this really was much easier to do when they were lying down.

And really, he thought, they might as well just take it into the bedroom. Sherlock’s punishment was over, after all, and John had intended all along to make sure Sherlock got a good long session of cuddle time at the end of it. And he’d be much better able to cuddle Sherlock on the bed, rather than trying to do it while Sherlock towered over him.

With that in mind, he released Sherlock and stepped back out of the embrace. Sherlock’s arms dropped at once, allowing John to move away, but John didn’t miss the flash of disappointment on his face as he too stepped back. Even as quickly hidden as it was, that look made something inside him ache in sympathy, and he hastily took Sherlock’s arm, tugging him in the direction of his bedroom.

“Come on, you,” he said. “Cuddle time, and I’d much rather do it where we can be comfortable. You’re too tall for me to cuddle you standing up.”

This time the flash of emotion in Sherlock’s eyes was the very opposite of disappointment, but it made John’s chest ache again just the same. How long, Christ, how _long_ had Sherlock been suppressing his yearning to be close to someone? How long had he kept it buried under that pretence of icy indifference? John had a terrible feeling that the answer was most of Sherlock’s life, because by the time John met him that pretence had been damn near impenetrable. It had taken John practically bulldozing his way through it to break down Sherlock’s defences.

And if he hadn’t done that, if he hadn’t lost his rag and simply acted on impulse that night, would he have ever even seen this side of Sherlock? John suspected it was entirely possible that the answer was no, and honestly that was a damn distressing thought. In the mere few weeks since their arrangement had started, he’d become very attached to his new role, and to the increasing closeness between them that had come with it. And after seeing just how badly Sherlock wanted that closeness with him, the idea that he might never have known to give it to him brought that ache in John’s chest back with a vengeance.

But he did know, he reminded himself firmly, before he could get too caught up in the what ifs. He knew because Sherlock had trusted him enough to let him know—had trusted him enough to let him in, to let him see. And he was damn well going to live up to that trust; he was going to give Sherlock all the closeness he wanted, and hope it went some way towards making up for all the times that Sherlock had gone without it.

And for right now, that meant some serious cuddle time, so John wasted no time in shepherding Sherlock back down the hall to his bedroom. “Up you go,” he said fondly, giving Sherlock a little push towards the bed. “And we’ll do this properly.”

Sherlock moved obediently towards the bed, but then abruptly stopped beside it, glancing back at John. A faint blush had risen in his cheeks, like a dusting of pink along the tops of his cheekbones.

“You don’t have to,” he said, sounding suddenly awkward. “It’s not as though I’m—” He stopped, hesitated, then finished with an attempt at an airy tone, “I’m fine, really.”

Since John knew damn well that he hadn’t mistaken the look of longing on Sherlock’s face just a minute ago, the fact that Sherlock would now try to pretend indifference was more than a bit heartbreaking. And quite apart from what Sherlock was saying, it only made John want to hug him even more.

Not that he would have taken no for an answer in any case. As he’d made clear to Sherlock on more than one occasion, cuddle time after a punishment wasn’t something he was willing to negotiate on. Sherlock needed it too much, and quite frankly so did John.

“I want to,” he said firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. “And we agreed: if I’m going to punish you, then I get to comfort you afterwards.” He thought reminding Sherlock of that couldn’t hurt, especially if Sherlock was feeling insecure; he seemed to find it reassuring to have John confirm that he’d hold to their agreements. “Now, your punishment’s over, so that means it’s cuddle time. No arguments.” John pointed at the bed, raising an eyebrow expectantly. “Come on, up you go.”

Sherlock’s blush had deepened as John spoke, but that yearning look was back in his eyes again, leaving John in no doubt about just how much he wanted the offered comfort, even as he tried to play it down. And apparently John had convinced him to give up any efforts to beg off, because he obeyed without another word, climbing carefully onto the bed and easing himself down onto his side.

John wasted no time in joining him, sliding onto the bed beside him and extending his arm in invitation. “Come here, you,” he said, very deliberately using the familiar words. “Cuddle time.”

Sherlock had appeared to be intently studying the duvet rather than looking at John, but that brought a small smile to his face, his lips quirking up just slightly at the corners. He scooted closer almost shyly, shuffling himself down a little so that he could put his head on John’s shoulder, and John immediately closed his arms around him and cuddled him close.

His hands fell automatically into their familiar positions, one on Sherlock’s back between his shoulder blades, and the other cupping his head, fingers twining gently into Sherlock’s curls. All pretence of disinterest gone now that he was actually being cuddled, Sherlock made a soft, pleased sound and snuggled closer into the warmth of John’s body, turning his face more fully into John’s shoulder and wrapping an arm around his waist. His fingers curled around a fold of John’s shirt, but lightly, not the desperate clutching that he tended to do when he was really upset. Rather it seemed that he was just holding on for comfort, and John felt a distinctly soppy smile forming at the thought of it.

“That’s more like it,” he said, his voice already dropping into his lower, soothing cuddle time tones. “Now I can give you a proper cuddle. Cuddle time after every punishment, remember?” He started to rub Sherlock’s back, eliciting another of those contented little sounds from him. “Every time, no exceptions.”

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed softly. His voice was muffled, but only a little; he wasn’t quite hiding in John’s shoulder, just turned into it. “Because we agreed,” he added after a moment, and John was reminded once again of just how much comfort Sherlock seemed to take from that.

“Because we agreed,” he confirmed fondly. Then, remembering Sherlock’s earlier hesitation, he added, “But it’s got nothing to do with having to, right? I want to do this. I’ve told you before, I don’t think I’d be able to punish you at all if you wouldn’t let me comfort you afterwards.” He hesitated, found himself trying to imagine that scenario, and grimaced. “I really don’t think I could, Sherlock. I’d feel like I was just being cruel.”

Sherlock replied at once, his voice low and even. “You’re not cruel.”

There was a pause that seemed somehow empty, as if he’d been planning to say more. John waited, wanting to give him the opening just in case there was more, but Sherlock remained silent. Whatever he’d been about to say, if indeed there had been something else, he’d obviously thought better of it.

Wishing briefly that he had Sherlock’s deductive abilities, if only to better interpret the man himself, John settled for cuddling Sherlock a bit closer, smoothing a hand gently over his dark curls.

“I’m glad you think so,” he said, adding with a wry chuckle, “Although I’d understand if you didn’t after the punishment you’ve just had.”

“You didn’t do it to be cruel,” Sherlock said. His tone hadn’t changed, remaining quiet and solemn, and John sobered again in response to it, stroking Sherlock’s hair in mild apology.

“No, I didn’t,” he agreed. “I’m glad you know that.”

At that, Sherlock made a vaguely scornful sound. “Of course I know that,” he said. This time his tone _had_ changed, and John silently marvelled yet again at Sherlock’s ability to sound completely disdainful even with his face half-buried in John’s shoulder.

“Of course you do,” he agreed dryly, allowing himself a moment to roll his eyes before becoming serious again. “But look, you know I’m not going to shy away from punishing you if I think it’ll help keep you safe. We’re agreed on that, and I’m sticking to it. But it’s important to me to be able to make you feel better afterwards. And it’s important too that you know you’re forgiven once it’s over. I don’t want you doubting that.”

Sherlock was silent for a moment, and John had the impression that he was considering how to respond. “I didn’t,” he said finally. “Not really. I could tell that you did forgive me. I just …”

His voice trailed off with uncommon awkwardness, and he fell silent. John waited again, but this time when Sherlock didn’t seem inclined to continue, he gently prompted, “Just?”

Sherlock squirmed slightly against him, turning his face a little further into John’s shoulder. “Wanted to be sure,” he admitted softly.

He spoke as if he was confessing something quite shameful, his discomfort obvious even with his face hidden, although John wasn’t sure if he was more bothered about having wanted further reassurance or because he hadn’t quite been able to trust his own observations enough not to ask. Knowing Sherlock, he thought it could easily be either or both; he’d already seen that Sherlock could become abruptly self-conscious about being comforted, and he was certainly sensitive about any possibility of his deductions being wrong. And if he was feeling a bit vulnerable after being punished so severely—which John was quite certain that he was—then that was probably only adding to his unease.

Whatever the reason, though, it only made John want to hug him even more, and he instinctively tried to pull Sherlock closer—not that there was really any space left between them to close.

“Are you sure now?” he asked, having a good idea of the answer but wanting to be sure himself. He kept his tone mild, not wanting to embarrass Sherlock any further, although he supposed he’d already rather given himself away with the tighter hug.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied quietly. He hadn’t seemed to mind John trying to cuddle him even closer, not if the way he’d snuggled into it was any indication, but the fact that John had stopped rubbing his back to do it seemed to displease him. He twitched one shoulder pointedly, making John’s hand shift with the movement, and John took the hint and started rubbing again. He smiled to himself when Sherlock immediately relaxed back against him, giving an appreciative little sigh.

“Good,” he said, letting his hand move soothingly back and forth between Sherlock’s shoulder blades. “I want you to be sure. I want you to know that when a punishment’s over, it’s over, and you’re forgiven and we can put it behind us. And if you’re not sure about that—or even if you are and you just want to hear me say it—you can always ask, okay?”

“I shouldn’t need to ask if I’m already sure,” Sherlock pointed out, the words well muffled in John’s shoulder now. “It’s unnecessary redundancy.”

John couldn’t help but chuckle at that, partly because it was such a typically Sherlock thing to say, and partly because he was just amused that he’d been able to make out the words at all. Really, he thought he was becoming quite impressively proficient in understanding muffled-Sherlock.

“Even so,” he said, making no attempt to keep the fond amusement out of his tone. “Call it getting final proof of your observations if you like. That’s nice and scientific.” Sherlock huffed at that, and John grinned before deliberately sobering again. “You can always ask me,” he repeated, speaking earnestly now. “I mean it, Sherlock, even if you just want to hear me say it out loud. Okay?”

Sherlock gave another little huff, but the reply that followed was soft, making it clear that his apparent sulkiness was just for show. “Okay.”

“Good,” John said. Then, remembering the point he’d been originally trying to make, he added, “And even if you are sure, I still want to be able to look after you and comfort you after you’ve been punished. We both need cuddle time, and that’s why we’re agreed on that too. Right?”

He waited for Sherlock to reply, which he did with a dutiful, albeit muffled, “Right.”

“Right,” John repeated. “It’s important.” He paused for a moment, wanting to let it sink in that it was important all the time, then added more gently, “And it’s especially important when you’ve had a punishment that’s been really hard on you. And I know this one was.”

It was, he thought, actually hard to believe that the whole thing had only started yesterday. John felt like it had been going on for days, which meant poor Sherlock probably felt like it had been going on for weeks.

There was another long moment of silence after that. Sherlock was very still—not tense, just still—and once again John had the impression that he was silently debating with himself about how to respond. It wasn’t as though John had done anything other than state a fact—the punishment _had_ been hard on Sherlock, and they both knew it—but John was well aware that whether, and how, Sherlock chose to acknowledge that now that it was all over was an entirely open question. It was, after all, a sensitive issue, and Sherlock could be bloody mercurial at the best of times.

But not this time, apparently. Almost as soon as the thought crossed John’s mind, the stillness went out of Sherlock with a soft sigh, and he nodded against John’s shoulder—or into his shoulder, really. “Yes,” he agreed, quietly but fervently.

John let out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding. No denials, no stroppiness, just a heartfelt yes. Well, good. He was going to take that as full permission to do a lot more comforting, which he was more than happy to do. This was what he’d been looking forward to since yesterday, the opportunity to give Sherlock a good, long cuddle and make it all better.

“I know,” he soothed, his voice softening instantly back into his cuddle time murmur. “And I know it was awful. But it’s all over now. All finished and forgiven.” He bent his head down to press a quick, fond kiss into Sherlock’s hair, like a final assurance of that forgiveness.

“And you took it really well, too,” he added, gently but with genuine approval. “You were very brave.”

Rather to his dismay, he felt Sherlock abruptly tense at those words, stiffening uncomfortably against him. “Hardly,” Sherlock said shortly, and turned his face a little further still into John’s shoulder. His tone was low and even, but even muffled as it was, John didn’t miss the uncharacteristic note of self-deprecation in it.

He was pretty sure he knew exactly where Sherlock’s thoughts had gone, too. Sherlock had broken down completely not just once but twice during his extended punishment, and John hadn’t forgotten how distressed he’d been about it on both occasions. He’d done his best to provide plenty of reassurance, but he’d bet it was going to take a lot more of it before Sherlock stopped feeling sensitive about such a loss of control.

But that was fine. John was more than happy to provide as much reassurance as Sherlock needed, and he intended to start right now.

“Yes, you were,” he said, speaking gently but insistently. “You were brave, Sherlock, and you did take it well. You trusted me to discipline you, even though it was hard. You accepted my decisions about it, and you did as you were told—well, mostly,” he amended with a chuckle, as Sherlock gave another disbelieving scoff. John brushed a hand fondly through his curls, his tone becoming serious again as he went on, “And you took a lot of punishment very bravely. Don’t think I don’t know how hard that was. You did really well, Sherlock. I’m proud of you.”

Silence fell between them yet again after John finished, and this time it seemed to stretch out almost endlessly. John deliberately didn’t break it, wanting to give Sherlock the time to decide for himself about John’s sincerity—and he had been entirely sincere. Still, it wasn’t an easy wait. The silent pause went on, and on—and John was actually starting to wonder if Sherlock intended to reply at all, when he abruptly rolled his face out of John’s shoulder and propped himself up so that he could look John in the eye.

“You’re proud of me,” he echoed, his tone flat but somehow still managing to convey extreme scepticism. His grey eyes bored into John as if he was trying to drill holes in him, but John—who _had_ been entirely sincere—met the intense gaze squarely, merely raising an eyebrow in response.

“Yes,” he replied without hesitation. “I’m proud of you.”

Sherlock continued to stare at him, dark brows drawing together in what looked to John like a kind of fierce puzzlement. His eyes scanned John’s face, searching it as if for clues, or perhaps for any hints that John might not be entirely in earnest. When he apparently didn’t find any, for a moment he looked even more perplexed, as if he simply couldn’t make sense of it. And then, as John gazed steadily back at him, his expression abruptly softened into an almost wounded look, and he blew out a sharp breath and looked away.

He was silent again for a moment, looking down and—adorably—biting his lip, then his eyes lifted to meet John’s once more and he asked in an uncommonly small voice, “Really?”

The uncertainty on his face almost broke John’s heart. “Yes,” he said again, almost fiercely, suddenly wanting nothing more than to convince Sherlock that he meant it. “ _Really_.” A beat, and then he added in a gentler tone, “Is it so hard to believe?”

Sherlock shook his head, looking vaguely frustrated now. “No. I don’t know. You were furious with me yesterday,” he said, and John was pretty sure that actually translated as ‘no, I don’t know, and _yes_ ’. “And I know you forgive me, and you say now that I took it well, and even if you don’t mind that I …” He stopped as if he’d thought better of what he was going to say, bit his lip again, then gave an aggravated little huff. “I know I made it … difficult,” he finally said, the words coming with obvious reluctance.

If Sherlock hadn’t looked so unhappy, John could almost have laughed at that, just because Sherlock had said it as though his being difficult was something—well, _unusual_ , as opposed to something he did practically every day. As it was, though, the fact that he was so obviously feeling insecure about it meant that sympathy easily won out over any amusement John might have felt.

He tried not to sound _too_ sympathetic, though, just in case Sherlock, in his agitation, took it the wrong way. “Okay,” he said, trying instead for a tone that was brisk while still being gentle, and hoping he’d got the balance right. “Okay, one thing at a time, but first of all, you come back here.” He put a hand behind Sherlock’s head and gave a gentle tug. “Come on. Cuddle time.”

Sherlock gave him another sceptical look, but after a moment he did allow John to guide his head back down, and settled himself back against John’s shoulder with a sigh. Encouraged, John let his other hand fall in between Sherlock’s shoulder blades and took up rubbing again, hoping the added comfort would help Sherlock to relax. Apparently it had an effect, because after another brief hesitation Sherlock’s arm slid cautiously back around John’s waist, fingers gripping lightly at his shirt.

“Okay,” John said again, once they were settled. “Let’s do this one thing at a time. First of all, you make an art form out of being difficult, and let’s not pretend otherwise. And more often than not you enjoy it.”

In another tone that might have been a rebuke, but John was pretty sure he sounded far too fond for Sherlock to misinterpret it as real criticism. And sure enough, Sherlock’s only reaction was a huff that sounded more amused than really indignant, and another little sigh that took much of the remaining tension out of him.

“And I knew that when we started this,” John went on, relieved. “I don’t expect you to be all sunshine and roses at the best of times, let alone when you’re being punished and you’re understandably unhappy about it. Acting up and being difficult might get you extra punishment if you push it too far, but that’s the only thing it’s going to do. It doesn’t change anything else, and it won’t change anything else. Okay?”

Sherlock shifted restlessly against him, but settled again almost at once, and John could feel that he was starting to properly relax this time. “Okay,” he agreed quietly, after a moment.

“Good,” John said. “And as for this punishment: yes, okay, you were difficult at times. But you were getting a very severe punishment and I know it was hard, and you took it anyway. And I think you did really well. And since I’m the one who actually saw it all, I think I’m the one to listen to on that, so I don’t want to hear any more arguments about it.” He paused for a moment to let that sink in, then added wryly, “And not a bloody word about how I don’t observe properly, all right?”

That actually drew a low chuckle from Sherlock. “All right.”

“Right,” John said, satisfied. “Okay. Next thing, then: yes, I was bloody angry with you yesterday. You scared the bloody hell out of me and I don’t like being scared like that. But I’m not angry anymore. Your punishment’s over, and that means it’s all finished and forgiven. I meant what I said before; I don’t want you to forget about it, but that’s all it is now. Something to remember, so that you think twice before you do something like that again, or at least I bloody well hope you will.”

Another weighty pause, then he went on more gently, “But if you do do something like that again, then it still won’t change anything. I’ll punish you again, and I’ll forgive you again, and we’ll just keep on trying. Because if you don’t have the sense in your head to keep yourself safe, then I’ll do it for you. Right?”

He had used those words very deliberately, remembering Sherlock’s reaction to them yesterday, the immediate closer snuggling that had told John that despite his apparent sulking the assurance had made him feel safe. He was pleased when it seemed to have the same effect this time; Sherlock shifted again as if trying to get closer to him, and turned his face a little more into John’s shoulder.

“Right,” he echoed, and while it was somewhat muffled this time, John thought he even sounded comforted.

And since he was using deliberately reassuring phrases, he decided he might as well throw in the one that Sherlock seemed to rely on the most to feel secure. “We’re agreed?” he added pointedly, and felt Sherlock nod once against his shoulder.

“Yes.” A beat, and then he repeated more confidently, “Yes. We’re agreed.”

“Good.” John patted his back, then leaned down to press another kiss to the top of the curly head. “But that’s for the future. For right now, it’s all over. All finished and forgiven, and you were very brave, and I’m proud of you. And now we’re going to have cuddle time, and then later on we can go for that walk you wanted, or do anything else you’d like to do. And tomorrow, it’s all back to normal.” He chuckled, his firm tone giving way to amusement as he added wryly, “Well, as normal as it ever gets around here, anyway.”

“You like it,” Sherlock said, and nuzzled his head against John’s shoulder. He sounded quite contented again, his anxious frustration apparently gone as quickly as it had arrived, and John was both touched and grateful that Sherlock had allowed himself to be so readily reassured.

“I could do without the death-defying stunts,” he said dryly, although once again his tone was too affectionate to be really reproving. “But yeah, I do.”

Sherlock nuzzled him again in response, and John replied to that by carding his fingers into Sherlock’s curls and massaging Sherlock’s scalp with his fingers, letting them slowly curl and release in time with his back rubbing. Sherlock gave a low, pleased hum, squirming for a moment as if it simply felt too good for him to stay still, before relaxing completely with a contented sigh.

_Like someone let all the air out of him_ , John thought fondly, finding the whole thing hugely endearing.

He thought that probably signalled the end of the conversation, since Sherlock showed every sign of being well settled in for a quiet cuddle—and if he kept to his usual habits, then quite possibly a nap as well. However, it seemed that Sherlock had other ideas. He was silent for perhaps a minute—a much more comfortable silence this time—but then he shifted again, turning his face back out of John’s shoulder just enough so that he could speak more easily.

“You called me your good Sherlock,” he said quietly.

He didn’t seem to be in any way troubled by this—his tone was dreamy and thoughtful, and he still seemed perfectly relaxed—but John found himself feeling somewhat cautious even so. He remembered quite well worrying that the possessive pronoun might have been a bit _too_ possessive, and while he’d quickly talked himself out of that concern at the time, the fact that Sherlock was bringing it up now made him wonder.

“Yeah, I did,” he said slowly. He waited for a moment, but when Sherlock didn’t say anything else he asked in a careful tone, “Is that okay?”

“Yes.”

It was said with no hesitation, and John smiled in relief. “Okay,” he said. “Good. That’s good.”

He paused again, feeling a bit awkward but wanting to give Sherlock another chance to speak, since after all he had been the one to bring it up in the first place. But when Sherlock remained silent John found himself filling the space with words almost without meaning to, struck by a sudden urge to explain himself.

“I didn’t actually mean to sound all possessive, you know,” he said, not quite sheepishly. “But it just came out, and then I thought … well. I suppose I am, a bit. Possessive, I mean. About you. And I don’t mind, I mean I’m the one who said it, but I wasn’t sure if you would. Mind. I’m glad you don’t.”

That had been more than a bit disjointed, and John felt more than a bit daft for sounding so scattered, but Sherlock’s reply made him quickly forget his embarrassment. Sherlock didn’t even acknowledge John’s ramblings, but instead just asked in that same thoughtful tone, “What about when I’m not good?”

He didn’t sound anxious, merely curious, but John couldn’t help remembering Sherlock’s words from just hours before. _Lots of people think I’m bad_ , Sherlock had said. And he had tried to say it as though it was just an observation, as though he didn’t care, but despite his efforts John had heard the hurt in his voice.

He couldn’t hear it now, but even so the memory was vivid enough that he found himself replying as if he could, saying firmly and almost fiercely, “You _are_ good.”

Sherlock seemed quite unruffled by his insistence. “I’m not always good, John,” he said, sounding more alert now, and with just a hint of his usual acerbic tone. “I think that was amply demonstrated over the last two days.” Before John could get a word in to deny it, he went on more mildly, “But I only ask because I’m trying to understand the dynamics of it. When I’m not good, do you still think of me as your Sherlock without the good part, or do you only think of me like that when I’m good?”

Okay, that was it. John’s heart was officially going to break, at least if the sudden ache in his chest was any indication.

“Sherlock,” he said roughly, and then had to stop for a moment when words quite failed him. He took a determined breath as he tried to regain his composure, and then quickly went on, speaking in a low, firm tone that left no room for doubt. “Sherlock, you are good. You misbehave sometimes, yes. Often, even. You do daft, dangerous things, and you throw stroppy tantrums, and you haven’t got the sense in your head to actually look after yourself and sometimes I wonder if you’ve deleted all the manners you ever learned. But that doesn’t mean you’re not good. None of it does. You _are_ good.”

He stopped again and took another steadying breath, even as a part of his mind distantly noted that this was apparently his day for disjointed little speeches. “You’re my good Sherlock all the time,” he finished, deciding to just make it as clear and unambiguous as possible. “All the time. Does that answer your question?”

Sherlock was silent for a moment, as if he was mulling that over. He still seemed mostly unperturbed, but when he spoke it was in a vaguely puzzled tone, a note of genuine confusion joining the mild curiosity. “Even when I … misbehave,” he said slowly, sounding as though he was trying to make sense of that.

“Yes,” John said, glad to be able to confirm it. “When you misbehave, you’re my good Sherlock who misbehaved, that’s all. It doesn’t change anything.”

“So even when I’m bad, I’m good?” Sherlock sounded highly dubious now. “John, that really doesn’t make sense.”

_Lots of people think I’m bad_ , John’s mind supplied, the words once again overlaying the ones Sherlock had actually spoken. He could almost have chuckled otherwise—if only because Sherlock sounded faintly put out by John’s apparent lack of making sense, and it was really rather adorable—but the echo of those words in his head had him much more concerned with correcting Sherlock’s misconception.

“Not when you say it like that, no,” he allowed, adding quickly, “But that’s not what I said. I said when you misbehave, it doesn’t change anything. And it doesn’t. Bad behaviour doesn’t mean you’re bad. You’re _not_ bad. And I don’t care what anyone else has told you, or what you’ve deduced from them, or any of that. I’m not them, and I know you better than they do. You’re not bad, Sherlock,” he repeated, silently willing Sherlock to believe him. “Trust me on that.”

There was another pause, and then Sherlock slowly lifted his head again, propping himself back up on one elbow so that he could look at John.

“You mean that,” he said, in a low, faintly wondering tone. He was regarding John with a kind of curious surprise, as if he was an experiment that had just produced some unexpected but not unwelcome result.

Well, John didn’t mind being an experiment if it meant that Sherlock would believe what he was saying. “Yes,” he replied without hesitation. “I mean it. Do you trust me?”

Rather to his surprise, Sherlock also spoke without hesitation. “Yes,” he said levelly, and something in his eyes had softened, a small smile just touching the corners of his mouth. “I trust you.”

It wasn’t the first time John had heard him say it, but the fact that he’d heard it before made absolutely no difference to his depth of feeling about it. Warmth bloomed instantly in his chest, and with it came the immediate and rather strong desire to cuddle Sherlock within an inch of his life. And really, since this was supposed to be cuddle time anyway, he saw absolutely no reason why he shouldn’t indulge it.

“Good,” he said firmly, as if that settled it, and then he met Sherlock’s little smile with an expectantly raised eyebrow. “Then if you’re quite finished deducing me, come back down here. I’m not finished cuddling you yet.”

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at him in return, but made it clear that he had no objections by obeying without a word, lowering his head back to John’s shoulder and snuggling himself firmly against his side. His arm came back around John’s waist, fingers curling around a comforting handful of his shirt—and for all his apparent mildness and dispassion during the whole exchange, John felt him hold on tightly for a long moment before he relaxed and let his grip loosen.

For his part, John had wrapped his arms tightly around Sherlock in return, hugging him hard for several breaths before letting his hands fall back to their customary places. Once they were both comfortably settled in, he took up his combination of back rubbing and head massaging once again, and smiled broadly to himself when Sherlock instantly melted against him with a sigh of pleasure.

“That’s more like it,” John said in satisfaction. His voice softened as he added, very deliberately, “That’s my good Sherlock.”

“Even when I misbehave,” Sherlock murmured in reply. He sounded dreamy again already, and John could almost feel his smile turn unbearably soppy on hearing it.

“Damn right,” he confirmed. “Even then. And all the time.”

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed, and tucked his face more comfortably against John’s shoulder. A beat, then there was a muffled, “John?”

“What?”

Sherlock’s voice lowered even more, but John had no trouble in making out the words. “Thank you.”

John told himself very firmly that that did _not_ just make his eyes sting. “Ditto,” he said, and if his voice was a bit rough—well, Sherlock had probably already deduced the stinging eyes thing anyway, so bugger it. “Now be quiet and have a cuddle.”

Sherlock gave a low chuckle, but said nothing more. John cast a fond gaze down at the curly head, and followed it up with a quick, affectionate kiss to the very top, before relaxing back onto the pillows with a sigh.

_That’s my good Sherlock_ , he thought, as he let his eyes close. And if, in his head, there was a bit more emphasis on the possessive pronoun this time, he felt it was entirely appropriate.

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cuddle Time](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1090700) by [swtalmnd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/swtalmnd/pseuds/swtalmnd)




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